


Still Running

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Blood and Violence, Child Neglect, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Omega Dean Winchester, Past Child Abuse, Scent Kink, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sex Toys, Sexual Confusion, Virginity Kink, institutionalized sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody could have expected that and how very <i>bad</i> it would happen. But it does, and oh; it's that road of no return you will roll down with a smile on your face and your beloved one's hand in your own - and you will be free from fear.</p><p>(Hunter-universe. A/B/O-biology on both humans and humanoid monsters. Sam (17) and Dean (21) are not related.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Running

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNINGS:** As usual, this is not your happy-go-lucky kind of fiction, so pleasepleaseplease check the tags for possible triggers.
> 
> There was not a single paragraph I _didn't_ enjoy writing. I hope reading all of it will be just as pleasant.

They usually stay alone. Others aren't as great hunters as them and only slow them down, John says. Not that he ever tells Sam that he is a good hunter. 

Maybe he's taking Sam with him because leaving family behind is the only thing that's worse than putting up with a moody kid. Mary died so many years ago; could he still be trying to please her? Does he keep him around as the only memory that stayed with him after the fire? 

The woods smell nice. It's cool in the forest, at least cooler than the usual California summer heat by a few heaven-sent degrees. Sam's hair flies wild with his head leaning out of the window, seatbelt-less and barefoot. John loves the car but feet on the console are magically okay with him. Not that he wants to start another energy-wrenching fight in this sticky air anyway. 

A pack of vampires, presumably. Too many for even two or three John's at once. Way too many for one and maybe one fourth John. 

He'd ask what the guys they'll work with are like, who they are, what their names are, but the years have taught him silence. He wants to get out of these jeans (Do these ugly Bermudas from three years ago still exist? And if yes, will they still fit?) and out of this car and into an icy mountain spring and out of his own skin. 

A scent. 

He sniffles at empty air that rushes by him too fast for the old tires and the bumpy road, blinks. It's new. Completely new. He wants to know what it is; surely John smells it as well? It gets thicker by the mile. Sam chews on his lip, then on the inside of it. 

It's like freshly chopped wood (oh, the fireplace in Nevada last winter) and mashed potatoes (Uncle Bobby makes the best) and honeydew lemon (Sarah Landson shared one with him when he was twelve and madly in love) and a warm bed to bury yourself in and never come out again. 

He wants to know and bites down harder. 

"We're almost there," John tells the windshield. 

Sam notices the cabin early, the smell now heavy enough to leave a sting in his nostrils. Nails scratch over ankles and leave fading crescent moons in their wake. 

There is a guy, broad but compact, chopping woods in a cheesy flannel. Sam can smell the sweat from here, sees it running down his bearded face and into his heavily curled chest (first four buttons popped; why does he even bother wearing the shirt at all?). He's calm, gives the Impala a short glance and that's it. 

They get out in perfect sync and Sam wishes he could be proud about it. He doesn't bother to put his socks and shoes back on, not even with the dirt and pine needles underneath his soles. It's well hidden here, surrounded by trees. John said the guys are just as "discreet" as them. "Discreet" as in "avoiding human contact like you majored in it", Sam now understands. 

There isn't exactly delight in the air, a bit of uneasiness, discomfort. He sniffs subtly. It must be here - sways his head - no, more southwest from here. His hands shoved into his pockets and his toes curled deep into the ground with every step, he can hold back from walking off to find the source. 

"Hey." His fangs are hidden, but Sam knows, just _knows_ this is a vampire. But John closes in on him and reaches out for a solid handshake. "You Benny?" 

Benny accepts after putting the axe down. Something like a tiny smile rushes over his face (as far as Sam remembers how those look like). "Sure am. You the Winchesters I s'ppose then." 

Sam needs an elbow between his ribs to stop staring into the woods where he smells the scent closing in from. He grants the vampire a sweaty palm to shake and a polite face behind too long bangs. "Sam," he croaks. 

"'N John," Benny completes the inevitable. "Good to see ya. 'Xpected you to arrive sooner, actually." 

Sam drifts off, his ears ringing with the rustle of twigs and leaves under someone's feet. 

"Yeah, got stuck on the forty-five." 

A silhouette turns into flesh and bones carrying what looks like half a tree over its shoulder. A few steps closer and Sam knows it's a guy, maybe about his own height or a tad smaller. 

Another few and he could cry from the scent burning in his eyes. 

Another and in between all these trees Sam can clearly see green eyes locking with his own. 

He forgets how to swallow. 

"M'brother and me were almost worried, ya know." 

"He's not your brother," Sam mutters with intention, eyes watering and pinned somewhere behind Benny. 

He doesn't see neither John's quick sideway glance at him nor Benny's hint of a frown. 

"Huh. We workin' with Einstein, brother?" 

His voice is like bumping into someone in a busy street, like stubbing your toe, like the sting of a bee. His scent washing over the three of them when he drops the lodge leaves Sam breathless. He wants to hide and cry and even more of that since he knows everyone in front of this century-old cabin can smell it on him right now. 

"Dean." 

John takes and shakes his hand like he doesn't smell it. Like he doesn't know what's going on. Like he doesn't smell the increasing sourness of discomfort hidden underneath endless layers of a perfectly fertile, sweet omega. 

"John," his father says. 

"And that's Sam," he hears Benny say. 

Sam doubts he'll ever be able to forget the taste this smell leaves on his tongue. 

Omega _. A male omega_. He can't believe it. 

Of course he knows they exist, that they're rare but not non-existent. Only two damn percent of men worldwide turn out to be omegas; how fucking _odd_ are the chances to run into one? 

His mouth is bleeding in all kinds of places by the time they sat through a torturously explicit analysis of the case. It's so hard not to look (or, well, _stare_ ) but if he doesn't want to pop a very unprofessional boner, Sam has to put all his will into it. He knows they know, and worse, that _Dean_ knows what he is thinking - if he is thinking at all. 

He's never thought about this. It's just too crazy to even put in consideration, really. A man? At seventeen, Sam is pretty far from a virgin, has seen some betas and once even an omega girl (her brother almost bashed his head in when he found out) - but this? This has never happened. It's like something's telling him to rip the guy's pants off, get his dick so far into whatever hole there will be found and fuck and breed until he turns blind from it. He's been horny, oh, God knows he's been _horny_ , but it's never been like _this_. 

Now, they're alone in what they're gonna call their room ("home") for the next one or two weeks and it's so hot and narrow that Sam is very positive to become claustrophobic in about five seconds. He could scream and kick and bite but he knows better than that; is polite, as always, especially with walls so thin and the other two somewhere around the house. 

"Dad - you knew, didn't you." 

"Knew what?" Oh, he could strangle the man for his indifference. This. Isn't. Fair. 

"That- that the guy, that he's a freakin'-" 

"Omega? Yes; yes, I knew that. Now would you stop bitchin' around? Get a grip, boy. 'S not like you just popped your knot yesterday, geez. Show some respect." 

Respect. _Respect_ , he says. Like Sam's some embarrassing dog humping some aunt's leg at a family get-together. Air shoots from his nostrils and he spasm in place in a desperate change of mind in between stomping his foot and staying perfectly still and behaved. Both options lose when he just turns and runs, leaves their room, the corridor, down the steps, out of the front door. 

Two alphas, even when related, can have a hard time being stuck in one place over longer periods of time. It got worse with Sam growing older, with his instincts sinking through. He's growing like weeds nowadays, almost doesn't have to tilt his head up anymore to look his father in the eye. While it makes John go nuts, Sam hasn't decided what to do with it yet. 

He punches a tree and feels stupid when the scrape starts burning, walks a few steps while blowing breath over his knuckles. 

From this far away, he almost feels safe when Dean exits the cabin; at least until it's unmistakable that he's walking towards him. The alpha in him wants to rip his own lungs out for barely suppressing his whimper. 

"Hey. Uhm… listen." 

There are a few feet in between them and it's still like being roasted alive. Sam looks up from his toes and meets this hellish green again. 

"I uhm. Just chill, alright? It's okay. I get it. You're an alpha, and- It's normal what you feel, okay? It's biology. You can't help it." 

Sam's toes dig into the ground. 

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I'm, uh. I'm used to that." 

_That_. Used to _that_. To getting drooled over by a stupid, knot-driven alpha. Great. Now that feels just _great_. 

"We'll be working together, Sam-" His name never sounded so beautiful and never looked this stunning before it dropped from these lips. "-so let's get this out of the way before things get complicated. Alright? Here. Gimme your hand." 

He stares at what he's being reached out with. Hesitates, cringes before he grips. Groans. 

"Hi, I'm Dean," he's told, watches his hand get shaken up and down, squeezed tight but not too tight, almost hesitant. 

Sam squeezes back harder, shudders from the adrenaline and the sudden change in atmosphere, scent; Dean's scent. "Sam," he manages, stares at the omega in confusion. He can't ignore the drop of lashes when Dean pulls his hand back. 

"See?" The smile's fake; Sam can smell it. "Wasn't that bad, huh? You a big boy; you'll live." 

Only after they finished dinner and Dean busies himself with picking up the dishes, Sam actually notices the scar. It's big enough to count as plural, really; how was that even possible to miss? He blames the smell and that he's slowly getting used to it; that his brain can have a different function than giving his dick directions. 

It's impolite to stare, so Sam doesn't, studies the bones showing on the back of his hands. From ear to mouth there are three deep crests through otherwise flawless, freckled skin; pink and raw. They're long healed but gruesome looking. Whatever did this was big. The gaps between the single rips indicate a paw close to the size of Dean's skull. 

Sam wants to know, ask. Under the dull noise of Benny and John talking with deep, tired tones, he swallows it down with a last gulp of water. 

Dean exits into the kitchen. The other two keep talking. Sam hesitates, then gets up. They don't seem to notice, so he follows, still barefoot. 

Around the corner of the doorframe he watches Dean soak the dishes and run his left hand down the back of his head and his sweaty neck. Sam blinks once and then twice before accepting the discovery of another scar that starts somewhere on the heavily muscled part between shoulder and neck. Starts. Maybe runs deeper. He could ask. 

"Take a picture or leave, kid." Sam can hear the frown and smell the nervousness. It makes him giddy somehow. 

"Lemme help," he offers and trots closer until he can smell the dishwater's soap as clear as Dean. Without another question, Dean takes a step to the side to make room and Sam's hands dive into the sink. 

It's so different, so so different than with an alpha or beta. Dean seems submissive, pliant; just like Sam's heard omegas are supposed to be like. But at the same time, he seems conflicted, unhappy; unwilling. Like he's trying to fight something, to speak up. Instead, he dries what Sam hands him in silence. It's so crazy. Sam doesn't know what to think of any of it. 

They're done quicker than Sam would have wished in order for him to pull together some courage. But he wants to know. 

"Th-that, uhm-" It's a stutter, and not one of those cute ones. "Y-your f-face, I mean, uh-" 

Different yet again and it hits Sam in the face like the fist that he sees Dean make could; but it stays tight next to his hip. The stench of anger and shame burns the back of his throat. 

Dean stomps off and leaves him alone in the kitchen. 

He hears Benny chuckle about one of John's absolutely un-funny "jokes" two rooms over and has to brace himself on the kitchen counter in order not to fall to his shaking knees. 

John's snores are loud enough to cover the sounds of spit-slick hand on cock underneath thin sheets. Sam stares up to the ceiling while he works himself with heavy pace. Even without a map or tour of the house, he knows exactly that Dean is sleeping in the room right above this one. 

It's not okay. Not okay to fuck with someone's head like that, to make him hump his hand wishing it was some guy's ass; something said someone isn't even interested in, hell, never thought about it as something sexual. And now it's all Sam can think about without even knowing _what_ to think about. 

He tries to remember male omega anatomy from biology class before John took him out of school three years ago; do they have an extra-hole or is it really just their ass that you fuck? God, it is such a taboo that most schools don't even _teach_ that shit; Sam should know with passing through ten schools that year and only two mentions of the topic at all. 

Strangely enough, he wouldn't mind either option. It'd be perfectly alright with him to take anything Dean would let him have at, maybe his mouth, God; his bare stomach, his goddamn jeans-clad thigh to rub off against would do. 

Sam's never wanted to knot someone so bad in his life - and he knows he can't. Won't. 

Omegas are precious, well-kept treasures and if not marked already at least promised or engaged. Most go into their first heats and with that turn fertile at around fourteen. In average, their firstborns arrive only shortly after. 

While betas are slightly less fertile than their alpha and omega counterparts in both genders and female omegas are known to be the ideal mate for a male alpha, male omegas are told to be the nonplus ultra of reproduction. They can't breed someone else but the way their bodies crave to be impregnated and succeed at that is downright spectacular. Every few years a tragedy about one of them being held captive and used to give birth in endless circles all their life bubbles up in the media. Everyone is upset and talks about omega rights for a few weeks afterwards but just like the newest boy band, the scandal fades into thin air after some time. 

Sam's hand shakes despite the firm grip around his balls. It scares him how much he wants to go upstairs and just do exactly that; hold Dean down and pound him and breed him and make him his and never stop doing it ever again. Even though he couldn't hurt something except for the monsters they take down for humanity's sake and survival, he has these thoughts, cannot stop running them through his head over and over and over despite the tears in the corners of his eyes. Why? Why is he so sensitive to this? 

A last strand of dignity lets him get up and knot his hand over the toilet instead of soaking the whole bed with his release. 

Sam knows Dean knows about last night's "activities" the moment he enters the living room to have breakfast with the others. Dean's eyes are on him immediately, glaring shortly before dropping down and shoving a forkful of bacon and eggs into his mouth. 

They don't talk to each other but with Benny or John here and there whenever they're addressed. Shame lingers in the air along with a sharp side note of Benny's distrust. Sam learned from yesterday and lets his questions remain unasked. 

He came outside without the intent to see Dean or look at him or talk to him. Really, he did. 

"This your daddy's?" he's asked with an excited gesture towards the Impala. 

He nods. 

Dean looks like he's gonna jump in place any second now. If he had a tail, it'd be whacking all over the place. "'S it okay if I take a look? Just real quick?" 

Of course he nods. He rewards himself for his generosity with leaning against the car Dean's obviously fallen in love with. Of course he's only watching out for the painting when his eyes follow Dean's fingers slide over it like he's making love to it. 

"Oh God," he whispers, "she's beautiful." 

"And antique," Sam snorts. Dean's smile has bled on him by now. He's very sure they look just the same - one head over heels for something with four tires and one for something that would look simply perfect on all fours. 

"Hey, you say that like it's a bad thing. They don't make cars like that anymore, you know! This is America at its finest. Just driving in a beauty like this all over the states, all on your own, without a worry about one damn thing in the world…" Before Sam can truly take in Dean's vision drifting off into something way beyond his reflection in the door he's crouching in front of, it's back again, shrugged and laughed off like a pitiful joke. Dean's up on his feet in the blink of an eye, smile faked again, distant. The scar leaves the left side of his face kind of lazy, numb. It splits his eyebrow and is close enough to the corner of his mouth to let it gape the tiniest bit. "That'd be awesome. … I'd love to do that one day." 

He stutters the proposition before he understands that he does it out of pity. "You wanna take her out for a bit?" 

Dean stares at him. "Your daddy's okay with that?" 

He never was this happy to be the owner of the second car key. "'S gonna be mine by next year anyway." 

They drive through the narrow paths of the forest but as much as Sam's concerned it could have been the sea or the mountains or a lake or a desert as long as this amazing man is the one next to him. 

This obviously isn't the first time Dean is driving a car; Sam is thankful for the peaceful and relaxed atmosphere. Even the terrible classic rock from the cassette slot doesn't upset him. Not when Dean absently hums along with it with his voice so low it's vibrating through Sam's bones. No, like this, he could drive for hours and never ask for a single stop. 

His awkwardly long arms are a great disguise for the tent in his pants even though Dean can probably smell it anyway. It doesn't seem to disturb him but Sam doesn't risk upsetting him now. 

The car pulls to a halt on a ledge. Dean tells him something about this being a great spot to overlook the forest, to go stargazing, that he hasn't done that in a long time when he thinks about it. It's hard to listen with this throbbing in between his legs, his eyes glued to where Dean's mouth moves so prettily. 

Suddenly and before he knows what he's doing, Sam is nose-deep in Dean's neck, half leaning and kneeling over the gear in between the seats. 

Dean immediately stops talking altogether. Stupid. He should stop him. Stop. Tell him "no, bad dog; sit and stay". 

But he doesn't. 

There's movement underneath his nose as if Dean's craning his neck just the tiniest bit to give him the idea of more access. _As if_ \- 

His breathing turns into panting. From underneath the two of them, the honeydew smell intensifies. 

He's never sniffed a guy. It should weird him out. He shouldn't want to bite down here, exactly here where Dean's pulse drums against his mouth. 

A lick and both groan. 

Dean tastes like sweat and wood and cunt. 

Lips brush higher, along his jaw and surprisingly stubble-less chin (Omega equals less body hair, but none? _None?_ Jesus Christ), slide over other lips before they press down there. It's soft enough to fall asleep on top of, hot enough to burn skin. 

Dean kisses back the slightest bit. 

Out of his mind, Sam grabs his face with one giant hand, big enough to fully cover the scars, draws his thumb over where it's ending on the edge of Dean's cheekbone. It makes the omega shudder and Sam realizes he's in trouble. 

It's slick. It must be slick. Dean is into this. Into him. He wants him to- 

"W-wait, stop-" 

He's deaf to the hasty whisper, kisses deeper and realizes all of a sudden that this is what he had smelled all along, that Dean indeed had wanted him to do this all along, had smelled it even before their eyes had met for the first time- 

A surprisingly strong grip on the neck of his shirt rips him away and off the omega, out of his thoughts. He's confused enough not to struggle, clear enough to listen. 

"W-we can't, they- they'll smell it." 

Oh. _Oooh_. Sam swallows. "I don't care," he hears himself say and it's one of the most honest things he has said in a long time. 

"But _I_ do. Stop." Dean's face looks tight all of a sudden while the sweet scent doesn't decrease. Sam doesn't understand any of it. 

He's shoved back into his seat. Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he starts the car. 

On their way back, Sam stares out of the window. Dean doesn't speak or hum. 

Sam hates Metallica again. 

John's wristwatch on the nightstand tells him it's two am. He can't sleep. There is no way he could sleep, not like this, with Dean's smell imprinted on his nostrils, the sensation of his skin underneath his own. He can smell him even now, with one solid ceiling and floor separating them. 

Climbing out of his bed, he accepts that he's insane and terrible and instinct-driven. Up the narrow stairway he tries to make himself believe that it's all Dean's fault, that he lets this happen and hasn't ripped him apart or shot him yet. The last part of that moment in the car doesn't blur the vision of the omega willfully putting himself on display for him, only him. 

The door isn't locked. Barefoot and in his boxers only, Sam enters the room soaked in Dean's scent. He had been hard before he set foot in here but doesn't start leaking before he hears Dean move in his bed, only so very few steps across the small room, right underneath the window. 

"Leave." 

It's weak. Too weak. A bad try. 

His skin feels like peeling itself off his flesh by the time his knees hit the mattress. 

"I said _leave_." It's quiet, so much more quiet than the hunger Sam can read in this slightly flushed face peeking up at him, covers up to his chin as if they could protect him in any way. 

He pulls it away like nothing when he ducks deep enough to kiss. There's a lap of a tongue to his bottom lip when his palm wraps around clothed shoulder and his hips press up against the small of Dean's back. Sam never imagined it to be able to feel this insane, this needy for something, someone. 

"Don't." Another lick. "Don't." Another. 

Sam's thigh shoves up and meets damp cotton. Both gasp. Sam's dick leaks hard enough to leave a wet spot where Dean's shirt is riding up on his back. 

Dean spins around, kisses hard enough to let their teeth clatter against each other. Painfully aware of the loss on his thigh, Sam wraps the omega into both of his arms instead. There are sweaty palms flying over his chest, collar bones, shoulders. One wraps himself into the too-long strands of hair in the back of his neck. 

He humps against Dean's stomach and licks all spit from this mouth, claims, rubs, tastes, drinks up. 

"W-we can't, I-" 

The words are not wanted here. Nothing's wanted here. Sam grabs the back of Dean's shirt in order to pull it up and over his head and never put it anywhere near him ever again but Dean shoves him away an inch or two, pins him down into the pillows by the shoulder. 

He doesn't know why but he feels like he should throw a punch at this pretty face for denying him his will. The way Dean stares down at him doesn't make sense, not compared to the signals his scent gives off right now, no, not at all- 

"I- I'm not on the pill." 

Sam's expression falters. "Oh," he breathes. 

"I-I don't want- I can't-" 

There are condoms - but only for betas; nothing secure you can fit both over an alpha-knot and around a load of alpha-come. He wants to cry. "Okay," he lies while trying to think of some impossible way to talk Dean into having his babies, in this bed, this house, the forest, the Impala; doesn't really matter, "okay." 

"I'm sorry, I- I never thought it would be like this. That you would turn out to be- T-to be such a good match, I-I-" 

Oh. _Oooh_. 

That's why. That's what he had smelled, what the other two had smelled. Their chemistry, perfect and fitting and made for mating, drawing them into each other like a good working set of magnets. Making Sam loose his head over the need to knot. Making Dean so pliant and destroying his defense mechanisms. 

"Are you- a-are you in…?" 

"No heat," Dean huffs, "It's just- You smell so good and I- Fuck. This is bad. This is so fucking bad." 

It's stupid to get even harder at these words, isn't it? "Y-you too…?" 

"Yes, you son of a bitch; God, I hate this, why does it have to- Argh, fuck." 

Sam is kissed, stays pinned. Inside of his boxers, his dick spills enough liquid to form a thick drop straight through the fabric. 

"Just a little," he breathes, begs, "Just- If I don't knot you, then-" 

"No," Dean immediately groans. His nails dig into Sam's shoulder and it feels so so so fucking good. "At this rate, just one drop would be enough to- D-don't get it anywhere near my-" 

"I won't." It's a promise, a bad one but it is one. Dean whines into his mouth when Sam presses him back into the pillows with one strong arm, pushes his hands over his neck down his body while he makes sure to dig a hole into Dean's hip with his dick. Dean's right arm is trapped between mattress and Sam's body like this and Sam's breath hitches at the realization. "I-I'll just- C-can I touch…?" 

Dean's fingers flex underneath him, drive their nails into his side. He couldn't care less. 

Through gritted teeth and after a short silence, there's a "Your fingers clean?" 

He nods frantically enough to pull a muscle but doesn't care about the pain the instance Dean grips the waistband of his own boxers. His thighs wrap around Dean's right one after they both pulled the distracting piece of cloth down Dean's knees during a kiss that leaves them breathless and the pillows spit-wet. 

Dean's left thigh falls open just like this. So easily and willing, yet with such a deep tremble in the fingers he wraps around Sam's wrist. 

He guides it down without looking, barely brushes drooling cock and heavy balls before there's already wetness covering silky taint. Sam can't keep up the kiss now, just pants open-mouthed where Dean offers him to lick into. 

Just the slip of a finger deeper down, it is there. 

He presses in. The fingers around his wrist twitch as hard as his own cock. 

Hot, even hotter than this mouth. So slick, dripping, open, made for his knot and he knows, knows for _his_ knot and nobody else's for miles and miles and miles. 

Dean squirms when another easily slides in next to the first and swallows down a shuddering moan when Sam twists them. With so much happening at once, it's hard to keep up with all the new sensations; Sam wished they all came one after the other and not all at once. 

He pushes in up to the knuckle and feels his fingertips slip into yet another opening. Surprised, he opens his eyes at Dean's tiniest whimper. 

"Wh-wha…?" 

"M-my womb, d-don- I-" 

His fingers are long but not long enough, not to reach any further, but oh God, the mere thought of being inside of where his cock is supposed to go- 

Sam almost panics when he feels his knot starting to expand and Dean follows. 

Sam's head sinks a few inches deeper when the pillow from underneath him is ripped away and instead stuffed between his dick and Dean's body. He can barely see with the force he knows his orgasm will hit any second now but sees Dean's pretty eyes reflecting the moonlight, wet with tears, tastes his breath in and on his mouth, soaks the feeling of his silken, perfect insides into the pads of his fingers to never ever forget about it ever again - and comes. 

His hips move on their own behalf, hump the pillow in slow rolls while he moans, can't kiss, can't move his fingers, is somehow frozen all over but where his dick empties and empties and doesn't stop. Without enough pressure around his knot, this feels strange, endless; maybe a bit like torture. 

He doesn't remember calling out the omega's name when he gets his bottom lip and tongue licked, hears soft whispers of "Sam" and "Shit" and "Fuck". A furious hand plunges his fingers deeper into the sucking wetness in between Dean's strong legs, a dirty mouth encourages him with "More, come on, here, me too, please, Sam, _Sammy_ ". 

By the time he rasps that he wants to eat Dean's ass, he hasn't stopped coming yet. The pillow is pressed tight in between his legs and it must look absolutely awkward how shaky they reposition themselves, Sam's legs dangling from the end of the bed, his face pressed so deep up the space Dean offers in between his legs that he should worry about suffocating - but doesn't. 

It tastes as good as it smells. Dean's barely held back sobs of pleasure sound so different than the rough words he got thrown at with, so much _better_ , and Sam has sincere intentions to make the omega spill nothing but those for the rest of his life. He pulls the cheeks aside, buries his tongue deep but not deep enough to reach _truly_ _inside_ , doesn't care, licks, laps, stabs inside, the steady flow of slick and his own spit draining the sheets not any less than his come still does with the poor pillow. 

There is no real coming down between his minute-long orgasm and the pending towards the next. All that goes down is Sam's knot, and even that only barely. 

"I-I- I can't come like this, n-need, I-I need- Wait-" 

He doesn't exactly stop when Dean rolls to his side and fumbles with the nightstand, just licks on and on, feasts on Dean's ragged breath and curses - but does so completely when something cool and hard pushes up to his cheek. 

Pulling back, he can't help but stare and drop his jaw. 

"It's- I-" Dean obviously isn't comfortable with this; Sam could tell even without the way his fingers can barely hold the giant black silicone dildo without dropping it. "When I'm in heat, I- It's my emergency thing, so-" 

Possessively, Sam snatches it out of Dean's fingers and lines it up where he never wants to look away from ever again. "How are you so hot?" he grunts, pushes in the first inch and gets a fist into the crown of his hair as a reward, "How? God. _God_." 

Dean whimpers and the sweat underneath Sam's free hand on the omega's lower belly increases. It's incredible how this thing _fits_ inside. He can feel the give there is to the heavy material, how the rim catches when he pulls out. This dark, bloodshot, omega ass pink is his new favorite color. 

"Angle it upwards," he is instructed when he obviously gets too sidetracked, too slow, "Up here." Calloused fingers pat on the back of his hands on top of Dean's belly. He does as he's told. 

The dildo slips somewhere deep, somewhere it makes Dean arch his back under Sam's hand and throw his head backwards into the pillows. 

"Is this…? Oh God, it's inside of…!" He can't believe this. He's literally inside an omega's womb. Even if it's not his dick, it is purely amazing. 

Slick dribbles out along the rim regardless of if he pushes in or pulls out. Dean's thighs shake around his shoulders. When he fucks the toy in quicker and harder, Dean moans something that hasn't existed in Sam's vocabulary yet. It's his new favorite word. 

Sam shoves the dildo's knot past Dean's clenching hole - and can feel his insides convulse underneath his palm on his lower belly. Dean is biting down on something - another pillow, his arm, whatever - to not wake the whole house with his screams. And Sam knows why; they're magic and special and just for him and have him come a second time while he licks the fat globes of slick from around the flared head of the dildo, right from Dean's impossibly stretched hole, the silken surface of his insides. Hot and sweet and just for him. 

Even though it's his second climax this night, it isn't any shorter than his first. The pillow is ready for the trash when Sam peels his body off of it. He makes a frustrated noise when he realizes that he didn't pull his underwear down. 

"C'mere." In the darkness, he sees Dean's hand reach out for him, his face all relaxed and satisfied. On his knees, he climbs up to it just like Dean's palm on his ass guides him. The dildo remains where he left it; it seems like the natural thing to do to imitate the tying. Dean doesn't protest so maybe he was right. 

He swallows dry air when Dean pulls his boxers down and starts licking his come off his spent, halfway flaccid cock. By the time he's done, it's back to full attention again. 

Dean looks up at him with a face torn between annoyance and adoration. "Wow. Insatiable, are we, Winchester?" 

_Just because of you_ , Sam wants to say but bites it back, climbs out of his dripping boxers instead and makes a move to lie down next to the man he just somehow had sex with - but is shoved away. 

"No." It's so dry it's surreal. "You can't sleep here. Go to your own bed." 

He doesn't understand this. Any of this. "What?" is all he can mutter. 

"You'll smell like me." 

This can't be real. Sam's anger manifests in a frown. "My goddamn face smells like your ass anyway, so what's the problem?" 

He watches Dean flinch, feels his fingers twitch on top of his chest. "I-" His voice is smaller now, shier. "I really can't risk… getting pregnant. If you hump me in your sleep or anything, I… That'd be enough already." 

Sam's face softens again. "Oh," he manages. 

"Yeah. And. If you rub me too much, that would mark me, so…" 

"You don't have a mate, do you?" 

Dean looks at him as if he just argued that the Earth wasn't round. 

"I, I mean I know you don't, but I just-" Completely naked, his stuttering becomes even worse. "I don't. I don't understand. Why? How?" _You're too amazing to be unclaimed_ , he wants to add, but doesn't. 

It's hard to tell in the dark but Sam can guess by the harsher push against his chest that Dean's face just turned significantly harder, like earlier in the kitchen. 

"I just don't want to, okay? Not every omega wants to be bred twenty four seven." 

_You very clearly wanted exactly that just a few moments ago_ , Sam wants to say. But doesn't. 

"I'm not reproductive organs on legs," Dean grunts and shoves Sam up to the edge of the mattress, close enough for him to feel the sensation of falling without actually pushing him off the edge, "but everyone, fucking _everyone_ I've ever fucking met seems to assume exactly that." 

Media and society and almost everyone _Sam's_ ever met so far obviously is included in Dean's circle of hate. To his own shame, Sam hadn't given the topic a second thought up to this very moment. 

"W-what about Benny? What about him?" 

"What do you mean 'what about him'?" 

"Why hasn't he. I mean." He swallows. This is thin ice. 

He feels Dean's eyes on him but can't exactly see in the dark. After an awkward silence, Dean speaks. "Benny is the only alpha I ever could and still do trust." 

"So. You're not…?" 

"We're not together," the omega ends the sentence. Sam swallows. "He's my brother. We take care of each other." 

"You're… _not related_. You don't smell alike at all." 

The hand on his chest pulls back. 

"I'd take a bullet for him. He'd do the same for me. If that's not what _brothers_ are, then I don't know what to tell ya." 

Sam moves back onto the bed a little. "How'd you two meet?" 

"Kiddo…" Dean's hand wipes over his pretty face, the scars, the freckles while he repositions himself onto his back. Without his boxers on it's easy to get distracted by the strict "v" of his hips and the trail of milky-clear droplets leading to his not any less pretty dick. Sam should be irritated that a dick, a simple dick gets him excited here. But he isn't. "… I really ain't in the mood for big talks right now." 

"Long story?" He doesn't want to get up and leave this bed ever again. He'd talk and listen or just lie here in silence if it meant that he could actually _lie_ here. 

"Biblical." 

"Oh," Sam sighs, "okay." 

"Go get some shut-eye. We're gonna have a look at the nest tomorrow." 

Sam's head drops. "Okay." 

Before he reaches the door with his filthy underwear in his hand, Dean calls his name once more. Dizzy with the sound, he turns around again. 

"Your daddy knows about this? That you sneaked in here?" 

Sam shakes his head. 

"Shit." Dean's groans should be put on a CD and played in endless loops forever. It would be pure porn. "You'll be in trouble, puppy." 

He frowns against the moonlight. 

"He ever been happy about you gettin' your knot popped by someone?" 

The frown drops. 

"Yeah. Exactly." Dean turns away from him and mutters a quiet "Stupid alpha dominance shit I swear to God I didn't sign up for this crap" into his pillows. 

Sam makes a guilty face before closing the door behind him. 

"Don't do that again." 

Sam's expected worse, to be honest. On the other hand, he doesn't exactly want to find out about specific details of this "worse". 

The vampires' nest is two hours into the woods. The truck is the better choice over the Impala even though John doesn't like to admit that. 

They speak professionally, logically. Nobody talks about what their scents are perfect scripts to and Sam is not too sure if he should feel lucky about that yet. Dean looks clearly more relaxed than before - Sam wonders how long ago his last hook-up before last night had been. Or, moreover… If he hasn't been marked yet, _had_ there ever been anyone before Sam? 

The thought of Dean's possible virginity carries him through the hours and there barely are words from him next to his many silent nods. 

Not for a single time, Benny addresses him. 

He sneaks up to Dean in the afternoon, when his dad and Benny are mapping out the hunt further. Behind the sheds, comfortably seated in the shadows, Dean decided to clear the guns and get all silver bullets in their inventory together. 

"Not in the mood," he bluntly tells into the barrel of the gun he currently has his hands on. 

"I just- I just wanted to _talk_." 

"Oh, I'm sure, Sam." There's a nasty look - but any look from this omega actively turns Sam's knees into pure jelly anyway. "Same thing, though. Leave." 

There's a little spot next to Dean on the bench; maybe if he'd- 

"I said _leave_." 

Sam stares. "How. After last night, how-" 

"Okay. You know what?" The gun leaves Dean's hand. Sam is ready to drop to his knees in less than two seconds and right in front of this man that stares him down with the prettiest set of eyes he has ever seen. "It was a mistake. Everything. I shouldn't have- It was stupid. This is a job, Sam. It's important to keep our heads clear. I, we all, have to trust you." 

Wow. This is a different kind of jello. 

Dean pours some more oil onto a napkin and, with his eyes fixed on it, he picks up where he left with the gun. "We're colleagues, Sam. We'll do this job and then you'll leave. That's all there is gonna be happening here." 

_I can stay_ , he wants to mutter, _I can stay and scrub the floors and do the laundry and chop the wood, as long as I can stay with you. Fuck dad. Fuck him. Or I take you with me, take you with me and never let you leave my eyes ever again._

But he doesn't. Like the pines surrounding them, he stands still, slim legs so young and stupid that Sam hates the way they suddenly explode with force and want to carry him further away from the cabin than it'd be safe for him to be. 

"How can you be so easy about it?" he hears himself breathe, "Is this... is this all I am to you? Do you think you can send me away like this? Don't y-" 

"Is this a threat?" 

He looks up from his feet. 

"I asked you-" Dean's face is stone cold. There's a slight tremble to his voice confusing Sam about if Dean is about to cry or explode with rage. "-if this was a threat, Winchester." The omega is up on his feet all of a sudden and even though Sam's taller than him, he feels like he is being towered over by this body in front of him. "Is it? 'Cause let me tell ya-" 

This close up, Sam could count the freckles if he wasn't this scared. This close up, he can smell the gun oil on Dean's skin. 

"-the last alpha threatening me-" 

The omega growls deeper than it is suitable for someone as pretty as him, Sam thinks. 

"-got his throat ripped open by my bare hands." 

It's bare stupidity that urges Sam's face forward; sheer blasphemy to his surviving instincts when his hands grab at Dean's face to pull him into a kiss. Enough force sucks the omega's breath from him and Sam can feel him struggle, notices fingernails in his back and hair but won't let go; can't. 

A few moments later, he's held onto. 

Another, and familiar scent reaches his nose. 

"I hate you; oh God I hate you _so much_ -" 

Sam shushes with another kiss. Suddenly, he can't push Dean back into air anymore. Sandwiched between alpha and shed, Dean's breathing can barely return before Sam licks it out of his mouth again. 

Hissing fills the humid space around them when Sam licks sweat from Dean's neck, absolutely accidentally on purpose not watching his teeth in the process. Later, there is no way Dean will admit to have craned his neck to make the skin tight and bitable there - but it doesn't matter when Sam can feel it underneath his lips here and now. 

"On the bench," he demands. His voice sounds foreign to himself. 

"Fuck you," Dean spits. 

Sam's teeth sink in and Dean's knees buckle. 

"Bench," Sam repeats. 

There's a whimper, tiny and defeated. "Shit, fuck, why- I- Fuck…!" 

The curses turn into a breathless gasp when Sam pulls at Dean's legs, lets him drop onto the bench with his upper back, furthermore turn into jagged sobs when jeans and underwear are pulled down his ass and Sam's tongue immediately starts lapping in between effectively pushed-back and held open thighs. When his tongue stabs in, Dean's defense melts down with a shaky groan. 

It shouldn't be possible for this to feel so familiar, so right. There has been need before, hunger, but this is an entirely new level. Sam chews on the delicate furled rim and Dean writhes in his grip. He's instructed to _No, don't_ , but omega body screams _Yes, more_. His stomach flips when Dean starts rolling his hips against his mouth. 

Another few centimeters deeper, tighter against the burning hot body, and Sam wonders where those came from. He groans, feels his dick twitch in his jeans. As tempting as it is to spare one hand to cup himself, to give at least a hint of friction where he needs it most, he can't bring himself to let go of his omega. 

Curses reappear along with Sam's thumbs pulling apart Dean's cheeks. When he had slid them down there and when Dean had placed his boots on Sam's shoulders, Sam doesn't have a single clue. 

Dean comes like that, shaking like a pile of leaves in his hands, under him, his omega. Behind his closed eyelids, Sam's eyes roll back in his head at the peak of this honeysweet taste, that promise of fertility like an ode to his system. He keeps going through it because Dean's body invites him to do it with powerful contractions on his tongue and lips and simply because it's so so good. 

Before he can fully realize the change of Dean's moans from content to painful, he's pulled back by a fist in his hair. Sam rapidly blinks open his eyes but they don't focus, like in a fever. Judged by how his entire jaw area cools against forest air, Dean's slick and his own spit must be covering all of it. Sam exhales in a shudder at the thought. 

"Calm down, you hear me? Calm down, Sammy. Come on. Focus." 

The instructions are ridiculous, so Sam giggles. It dies off with a sharp slap in his face. 

"You son of a bitch, come on! Shit." 

Dean pushes him back on his haunches to pull up his jeans. Sam absently runs the back of his hand over where Dean hit him, over his cheek and then his mouth. 

With every less scolding rush of blood, the sound of the wind in the trees around them becomes sharper in his ears. 

Dean looks like a kid who has been caught getting his hand in the cookie jar. Which is ridiculous, because Sam is the one with his hands inside of things, isn't he? 

"We've gotta talk," John snaps as soon as they enter the cabin. 

Sam is pretty aware that he is unable to hide between a smaller and moreover _omega_ body. Still, he tries, eyes glued somewhere between Dean's shoulder blades. 

"Do we?" Dean is good at hiding the urge to succumb to his instincts, to bow down and roll his shoulders inwards to appear smaller. If anything, he stands taller than Sam is. 

John keeps their eye contact unbroken. "Yeah, we do." 

Benny stands a bit farther away and doesn't say anything, just watches; watches Sam who wishes he had washed his face and hands better than he did. The way he smells, Dean could as well still be glued to his face. 

John's arms are crossed in front of his chest. He's rock, mountain, unshakeable. "I thought I was dealing with professionals here." 

"You are," Dean insists. 

"Last time I checked, professionals don't fuck my underage son." 

Dean's rumble washes over everyone in the hallway. 

"I remember you telling me you were safe." 

"I'm- It's not a _heat_ -" 

"Then how do you explain this, huh? Can't control yourself as soon as a potential mate comes around? You're not a pup anymore, are you. So keep it together." 

This shouldn't be addressed to Dean. It's Sam's fault, all his, _he_ did this, he's the alpha, _he did this_. "D-dad, I-" 

"Sam, no." 

"But I-" 

"Sam." Dean's forearm presses over his chest. Sam's entire body struggles with humiliation. "Your father is right. I should've kept myself in control. You're only a kid; it's my responsibility." 

"It endangers all of us." Even from this far away and this low, Benny's concern and anger is clearly audible, even in Sam's fuzzy perception. "Your scent, when it's like this… Monsters can smell it too, for miles." 

Sam's breath gets caught in his throat. He hadn't thought of that. In his knot-centered brain, Dean's smell was for him and him alone. But it makes sense. Yes. Of course. Especially vampires with senses as sharp as their fangs… Fuck. 

Benny's eyes wash over Dean. Sam scents pity. "You, brother, above anyone else, should know that." 

Back from Benny, Sam's gaze stumbles over a tiny piece of omega shoulder that peeps out from the neck of his Henley. 

The milky pink of scarred tissue turns his sweat ice cold. 

Dean's arm slowly drops against the weakened resistance from where it had to stop. "Yeah," he breathes, shoulders now finally drooping under his partner's sharp eyes, chin slowly following, "Yeah. You're right." 

Even though air fills his lungs, water his pores and bile his throat, Sam feels knocked empty of everything. 

"It won't happen again, Sir," he hears Dean mutter. 

Two days. Two days, Sam swallows everything, forces his head empty. Two days, he showers ice cold several times a day instead of touching himself. It has to be. It's his fault. Even though nobody seems to notice, he's an adult, too. He's responsible. He's bad influence. He has to protect all of them. It lies in his hands just as much as in Dean's. 

Two days. Two days, they are good enough to not be interfered with when Sam sits down at the bonfire with Dean. Over the smell of burning wood, Dean's scent isn't as tough on him. It's safe. 

They sit in silence, not really next to each other but also not too far away to touch. Neither of them moves. 

It's safe. 

Dean sighs. "I'm sorry this is happening." 

"It's not your fault." He dares to let his eyes wander. They come to rest on Dean's face for the first time in many hours. Drooped eyes are focused somewhere in the flames which draw dancing shadows over his skin. There are reasons Sam hasn't allowed himself to get lost in that face, after all. 

"I should have pushed you off harder. We shouldn't have… God." He rubs his hand over his eyes, mouth. Sam doesn't think of how those lips must feel against calloused palm. "I hate losing control like that." 

"It's not your fault," Sam repeats, more insistent now. The troubled tone to Dean's voice isn't supposed to be there. "Omegas, they-" 

"No, okay? Just no. Stop." It's harsh, like another slap to his cheek. The old one still stings. Dean looks at him now, straight into his eyes, no obedience to be seen. Where he looked rather tired just a moment ago, he's wide awake now. "I'm not my gender. I'm not like that. I don't _want_ to be like that." The eyes are gone again, lost in the fire. "I don't want a mate, I don't want to be held down, I don't want to- to have- I don't want _kids_." 

That last part gives an unsuspected blow to Sam's guts. It's crazy because he hasn't actually, really thought about kids of his own. Not outside of some crazy sex phantasy, at least. And still, still it hurts to hear this fact out of the omega's mouth. 

"I'm not like that. I never was. And I never will." Dean pokes the fire with a nearby stick until the flames are bright and he himself worked off enough. He sighs. "Benny - he understands that, me; who I am. Even lets me hunt with him. Among all the hunters you and your daddy've met - how many of them were omegas?" 

The question catches him off guard. It takes a while to comb through his memory before he can put together a quiet answer. "… None." 

"Exactly." 

Green darts to him but backs off just as quick. Sam concentrates on the smell of burnt moss. 

"They say we're too vulnerable. Say we fuck everything up, that our instincts aren't aggressive enough. Our scent gives our position away, turn us into targets with a neon sign on top." 

If someone bothered to interview John about this topic, those would be his exact words. Sam's stomach cramps in guilt. 

Dean gives him a tired smile that isn't one. "Nobody takes an omega along on hunts. Nobody." 

His face cannot come up with a soothing expression this quick, so it flips from surprised to chuckle to uncomfortable. "Except Benny," he offers. 

A real smile pulls on Dean's mouth now, slow and small - but still. "Yeah. Except Benny." 

Nobody says anything for a while. Sam watches Dean's smile melt in the heat of the fire in front of them with passing time. 

He has a thousand questions, one more nuclear than the other. The sole of his sneakers rasps over the dry ground, pine needles and little twigs. "How'd you two meet?" 

"He found me. Dunno how else to explain it." 

That was… fast. Dean is tense again all of a sudden. Sam frowns. "What about your family?" 

"Don't have one." 

Just as quick, just as begging for silence as the first. So Sam complies. This here is vulnerable and he knows it. 

Again, all sound there is is the fire eating away on whatever it is offered in the pit. 

It's Dean who speaks again, not louder than a whisper. "Not all parents are that happy to have an omega-kid, you know." 

Sam's stomach tingles with a rush of hormones. He's sad and concerned and sorry all at once - but also astonished that Dean decided to put together a more profound answer to his question. 

"The places they put you… It was… Dunno. I dunno." 

No, Sam doesn't know either. John raised him on his own after his mother passed before Sam had developed enough muscle to hold his head up by himself. Yeah, he has been dragged from one place to the next - but at least he _has_ a family, no matter how ragged it might be. Home is where salt and empty bullet shells and the scent of old leather is. 

As if it gives him shelter, Dean keeps staring into the fire. His jaw is tense like when it was when John confronted him two days ago. "Wasn't exactly Disneyland." He runs his fingers through his hair and decides to rest his chin on his hand. Maybe it's the fire that turns his voice this raspy. Sam highly doubts it, though. "One day, I got a chance, _one_ , and I took it. And then I ran." 

He's beautiful, truly beautiful. Not like any good-looking guy Sam has seen, the ones in sport ads or the ones wearing fancy suits while holding an even prettier woman in their arm. Dean turns his face to truly look at Sam, and Sam can see the scars now, unconsciously hidden behind webbing of fingers, but Sam knows they're there. And they don't take away any beauty. Not at all. 

"You ever ran from your daddy?" Dean asks him. 

It isn't "running away" if it takes the other party three hours to haul your ass back home, is it? "No." 

Dean's brows twitch in surprise. Maybe he doesn't believe Sam; he's smart, after all. But he doesn't mention it so Sam won't explain it further. "Well. Anyway, uhm- Usually, you run from something, someone, right?" Of course, Sam nods, because, yeah. Yeah. You do. "I thought I'd done that, too. I thought I was free now." 

The "but" hangs heavy in the air and pushes Sam down hard enough to brace his upper body on his forearms on his thighs. 

"But I wasn't." 

The omega faces the fire again. At this point, Sam wonders how many people he has shared this story with. The thought snakes through his chest like a tiny livewire. 

Dean's dry sigh of a chuckle doesn't help with that. "Problem is: Where do you run from yourself?" 

The livewire turns into a small fire with every new word that feels like a secret shared between children. Except that they aren't children, and that their secrets aren't innocent. With John, Sam is son, child, kid. With Dean, he feels like more. Like a friend, an equal. Like someone who is capable of more than just fucking things up and being a burden. It makes him want to pull the omega into his arms and tell him that everything is gonna be fine, just to make that sad tremble vanish from his voice. 

"I thought I could… dunno. Trick me. Told myself I was just as good as any damn alpha out there. Benny trained me, and when we went on our first hunt... I was so _happy_." A smile just for himself and the memory back then, it seems. Sam remembers his first kill, his first shoot with a handmade saw-off. Yeah. That adrenaline. Yeah, he can relate. "Finally, I thought, _finally_ I can show my strength, that I am not like that. That I am _worth_ something. … Well." The chuckle becomes a cough. In the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean's finger trace the scarred tissue on the corner of his mouth. "Didn't quite go as planned, I guess." 

He shouldn't ask, he shouldn't, he shouldn't. But he's so close, so close. "How did that happen?" he whispers, really not more than a whisper. His nose tells him Dean is struggling, ashamed to talk about it. He moves in closer on the bench to share his innocence, to encourage Dean to keep on talking. He shouldn't, but he needs to, needs to, needs to. 

When Dean's mouth finally opens, Sam's heart takes a leap. 

"I was stupid, young. Maybe as old as you are now. I pushed too far. I thought I was safe if I wasn't anywhere critical in my cycle, that I wouldn't- That I wouldn't _smell_." The omega scrunches his nose at the word like he doesn't know how amazing he smells, like he really truly doesn't comprehend the greatness of his being. If Sam wasn't as thrilled by his story, he'd be angry about this neglect. "Turns out I _do_ smell. All the time. _Always_." 

Sam tries to imagine Dean, a bit younger, maybe a bit less leaner, scared out of his mind. Thinks of something the size he thinks the monster must've been, thinks of John and Uncle Bobby discuss the appearance of Onikuma outside of Japan. 

"It was fast and I was unprepared. Fucker got me bad. I thought I'd… You know. I was close, back then. Benny offered to turn me, begged me, but I said no." 

Sam swallows and rubs his sweat into his jeans. "'Turn', like-" 

"Into a vamp, yes. Eternal life. Sucking blood. Whole story." Dean breaks the tension with a carefree shrug of his shoulders. He drops his hands back between his spread knees. "But I said 'no'. No, living forever as this, this-" Again, a hand through his hair, over his eyes. His smell probably doesn't give away all of his anxiety right now, Sam fears. But anger spikes high. "We live out here, with so many miles between civilization and us that it's ridiculous, should be, but isn't. 'Cause of me. 'Cause they won't stop pestering me. They smell me and all they can think of is to _own_ me." 

"Alphas," Sam completes. 

"Alphas." Dean nods, showers Sam with a short glance, a timid smile. Omega-smile. It's different from all the other ones, yeah, because Dean's eyes are softer than before, his shoulders rounder. Sam eats up these little things like the treats they are. "I get it, 'not every alpha' 'n shit; spare me. You're a good kid, I know that. You're a slave to your knot just like I am to my cunt." The choice of words is dangerous, Dean knows that and that makes him a mean asshole. Maybe he smells Sam's blood rushing south at the sound of it, so he turns back to the fire and clicks his tongue. "When he got me home, I'd lost so much blood I was almost empty, but it kept coming and coming, soaking the sheets, the carpet, everything. Up until today, I don't know how he did it." 

At first, Sam doesn't know why Dean tells him that, what it even means. Then he realizes. His eyes go wide in the darkness of the night. 

"I must've smelled like Christmas and Thanksgiving dinner all in one. I don't know how he did it. Not caving in. That's what taught me." Dean folds his hands together, kneads each individual finger while he talks. It's fascinating and adorable in a way that mix confusingly well with the still lingering arousal. "Taught me to endure, to come to peace. If a vamp can hold back from slurping down a free buffet like that, I thought, then I can hold back my instincts as well." 

Sam's brain lists down "omega interests": Submitting, mating, childbearing. _Mating_. His sight goes a bit dizzy. "You never…?" 

Dean doesn't look at him while he hums his "never". 

Dangerous, God, damn dangerous. So he _is_ a virgin (that's that particular cinnamon note to his scent, isn't it?), yeah, okay, whatever, body, just- just calm down. "Aren't heats… Aren't they-" 

"Painful as fuck without knottings, yeah. Like burning up from the inside; and the cramps, _God_ … And, yeah, before you ask: Benny offered help _there_ as well." Dean chuckles to himself like it's a funny memory of a baby falling face-first into his birthday-cake. Its echo sounds funny in Sam's head. "I said 'get me something I can shove up there and I'll be fine', so he did. Drove an entire day, without a break, 'cause he knew it was bad. That's what my brother does for me. Gets me sex toys with a picture-perfect alpha hard-on drippin' in his jeans." 

That name. That man. That alpha. "So he _is_ attracted to you, after all," Sam huffs. He can barely hold back the jealousy in his voice. 

"Yeah. Still, sometimes; even after all those years. The other way around, too. But we don't mention it. It's purely chemical." 

They're brothers. He sees Benny as a brother. He doesn't like him. Like as in "fuck"-like. Not like with _Sam_. 

"Like _us_. I mean. You're- you're _a_ _kid_." 

Sam grits his teeth with familiar anger. This order of words, this particular order, is something he is so tired of that it almost overshadows his urge to slip even closer to Dean. Almost. 

"I'm not a pedophile. I don't even like guys. I don't like _anyone_ , for heaven's sake." 

He wonders if that's possible, not being attracted to anyone, no matter the gender. It seems surreal to Sam who would jump everything and everyone that and who'd let him. And even if it is - it's not fair, coming from the most attractive person Sam has ever seen and probably will ever _have_ seen. 

And now Dean looks at him the sweetest he ever has, reeking of hesitation and shame and _slick_ \- and isn't that the most amazing mix Sam has ever smelled on him. "But still, here I am, so wet that I'll have to change my fucking _pants_." 

Yeah, yeah, Sam knows, of course knows. He slides a bit closer and sees Dean twitch initially, contemplating whether to back off or not, but in the end decides against it. Sam is highly aware of how his dick fills between his legs and even more of the fact that Dean must be, too. And Dean smiles. He _smiles_. 

"And you listen to me bitch and bitch and bitch about the stupidest things and I tell you to fuck off - and yet, here you are, waggin' your tail." 

Dean laughs, all timid and cute and innocent - not so innocent at all, really, but maybe he doesn't know or doesn't want to accept that. It does funny things to Sam's insides and carves dimples in his cheeks. "'Cause I like you," he breathes. 

A short peek is all he gets for that, before Dean coats his confession with his blabbering. "No, you like my cunt. My womb. You like the idea of shoving your knot up there, not me. You don't even _know_ me." 

It's a try, his defense. Sam can imagine Dean has heard stuff like that before, confessions or even proposals. Everything else would be impossible. But Sam isn't like those alphas, no, he isn't. If Dean dislikes alphas like that, he'll be a different one. "Know you better than half an hour ago," he tries. 

Again, that chuckle. "Sammy." God, that nickname. Sam wants to lick it off Dean's mouth. "Why'd I tell you all of that, huh? Jesus. You'll make my heat come early, swoonin' all over me like that." 

He shudders with arousal, cock fat in his jeans, straining the zipper. Does Dean know how he chews on his bottom lip? "Yeah?" Sam teases over the last three feet between them. 

"Yeah. Matching genes get the baby machine goin', I guess." One feet and Dean is squirming in his position, hunched over his thighs like this will protect him. Both their breath comes quicker by now. "Why am I tellin' you that? I don't wanna." He laughs the words off to make them less painful from his mouth, Sam gets it. Hands come up to cup his own face and rub like he can rub all the omega off. Sam wants to tell him that there is no need for that, it's okay, but his vocal cords won't work. 

"I don't. No," Dean croaks. There's a shiver to his voice and Sam smells another wave of slick into denim and wood. 

He exhales through his nostrils and digs the tips of his fingers into the bench. Sam takes his next inhale so close next to Dean's throat that he can feel the heat of foreign skin against his own. 

"No. We can't, Sam. No." 

"I won't touch, I promise. I just-" Another inhale, sweeter than the first, a bit sour with nervousness and a hint of fear, but still irresistible. Sam makes sure the exhale hits the back of Dean's neck where his hair is razored down the shortest. He has a feeling that Dean likes this spot without having a real clue about the "why". "If I smell you, and watch… Only that. Please. Only that." 

After too many heartbeats of silence and swinging pines and cracking firewood, the delicate "okay" finally tumbles from Dean's mouth. 

"I wanna see you," he breathes. 

Dean cringes under his eyes, and he's so small, so small in this crammed, tiny room that smells of nothing but him. "It'll put you off," he fears, rubs his sweaty neck, "It's pretty bad." 

They're standing so close in front of the bed that Sam can taste Dean's pulse on his tongue. He has his hand on his jeans clad erection and it throbs at the sight of hesitating omega. "It won't," he promises, "Please, lemme see you. Show me." 

A flutter of lashes follows the command and Sam can smell the endorphins Dean's body just erupted. It's all chemical, Dean said, and yes, that's a big part of it, but not all. These feelings… they can't simply be a product of some formula. 

When Dean starts pulling his shirt over his head, Sam almost comes right then and there at the little unwilling sound he produces too high in his throat; once more when there's skin where before there has been fabric. Sam gasps. 

"Warned you," Dean pouts. He looks and sounds like he's about to cry. 

No. He doesn't understand. That's not it. Doesn't he smell it? Doesn't he smell how utterly wonderful he is in Sam's eyes? "You're beautiful," Sam breathes, so close to the scar reaching over Dean's shoulder like those claws are still there, wrapping into his skin and deeper. 

Dean groans at that and Sam's knees buckle. 

Never before has he had the urge to run his fingers over something as bad as now; not only his fingers but his tongue and mouth and his entire body. Something in him tells him that it's the rawest part of Dean's body next to his virgin hole, that nobody ever touched him there, and that he'd let Sam be the first. 

But it's all chemical and Sam isn't here to claim. He isn't an alpha like that. 

"On the bed," he orders in a whisper, heel of his hand firm where his knot threatens to pop oh-too soon. 

It takes a lot out of him not to lunge right after the omega who eyes him suspiciously where he circles the bed to get to the other end of it. Carefully, he takes his place there, at Dean's feet, right at the edge. 

Dean's nostrils flare and Sam can smell his tension. His trust is delicate, but it's there. He can nurse it. "Told you I only want to watch." 

"Hm," Dean makes. It's somewhat rebellious and that makes it extra sweet. 

"Take off your pants." 

"Bossy pup," Dean complains, but blushes under the quickness of his own comply. Sam closes his eyes and groans at the wetness he can both smell and hear when Dean removes jeans and shorts. In reflex, his hips roll against the mattress. When he opens his eyes back up, Dean's are on him through the endless gap between his splayed legs. 

"Jesus Christ." 

"What?" 

"Nothing. It's just, you-" Sam bites his tongue because it tingles too hard, rubs his forehead into the sheets. He's so happy and horny he could cry. Dean smells like pure, innocent virgin but has his thighs parted like he's sitting crossed-legged - all while being completely oblivious to the fact that he's doing it. "You're amazing," he rasps. 

The omega hums again because praise means a happy alpha, and a happy alpha means mate, and a mate means babies. Dean's conflict is open for Sam to read now that he dared to share the very first bits of his secrets with him, now that Sam can understand and work with it. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, never wanted. Yes, he wants to follow his instincts, yes, he really damn wants to. But not like this. Not when there's so much at stake. He has to act responsibly. 

"Touch yourself." 

Hesitation on the other side, stray fingers cupping his own thighs. It's gorgeous. 

"As if I wasn't there. How you do it when you're alone." 

Dean mutters something along the lines of "I'm always alone, idiot" but obediently grabs his leaking dick nevertheless. His other hand settles in somewhere between balls and taint and- 

"Holy shit." 

"Dude, _stop talkin'_." 

Pinkie and then ring finger make wet little noises where they easily slide in. It's hard to tear his eyes away but fortunately crotch and face aren't too far away from each other from this angle. So, even if Dean doesn't approve of his gender, he still found a way to find pleasure through it. Sam wonders how many fruit- and knotless heats it took him to get comfortable with his body. 

The rhythm picks up pretty fast and Sam isn't surprised. Dean seems to be very sensitive, so it seems natural for him to get aroused this hard through heated words alone. It takes him some time but eventually, Dean's eyes slide closed as he relaxes around Sam's presence, maybe forgets about him a little. His breath comes in muffled little blows and there's three fingers now, pushing and then pulling a little to create a filthy-dark gap. Sam pretends to himself that Dean is showing off this sacred, snug pinkness only for him - and undoes the fly of his jeans. 

"Same rules for everyone," Dean mutters out of nowhere. 

After a short confusion, Sam smiles to himself and lifts off the bed to strip himself. If he maybe was half as horny and half mesmerized by what's going on right in front of his eyes, he'd be insecure about his bony body. It just won't get a hold of any of the food he shovels into it in regular intervals. Even Dean with his omega-body is double his weight. 

When he lies back down and raises his eyes back to Dean, he's met with a hungry pair of greens in the darkness of the room. Dean seems to want to say something but doesn't get past the slight opening of his lips; instead, he sighs and closes his eyes. 

Sam doesn't miss the spike in arousal in Dean's scent when he starts to fist his own throbbing cock in firm, precome-slick strokes, but again, there is no word from Dean, so he remains silent as well. 

His eyes rake over Dean like that, the two of them touching themselves on either sides of the same bed, maybe three foot in between Dean's feet and Sam's head, but it's safe like this. As long as they don't touch, there won't be a change to their scents. The others will be able to tell that they had gotten off, but not _how_. 

Three become four and after a while, Dean looks more troubled than satisfied. He grits his teeth. "I- Can you- It's at the end of the-" 

Sam rolls over and searches underneath the bed until he gets a hold of something. His cock gives a spurt of precome into Dean's sheets when he identifies it. 

"Yeah," Dean confirms the silent "holy shit", face painted so red in shame that he seems to have forgotten that Sam has seen him use this toy already. 

It takes about zero point something seconds from handing it over to seeing it disappear _deep_. 

" _Fuck_." It's like a punch to his nuts, really. 

Dean huffs a pitiful moan that he tries to keep quiet, so he divides it in small parts with every new inch he feeds to his hole. His legs are still spread wide enough to give Sam the clearest view he could have wished for. 

At the first withdrawal and push back in, Dean makes that hiccupped, desperate sound that has Sam roll on his belly and knot his fist with a muffled groan into the sheets. It's good, so good he's afraid he'll go blind with how hard his eyes roll back while he squeezes them shut. He keeps the bucking of his hips subtle in order to prevent the bedframe from squealing their secret through the entire cabin. 

So close and yet so far, he can hear it clear as day, the way Dean fucks the impressive toy into his ass, so quick and brutal now that it must hurt. But the omega hums and groans around his own tense tongue like it's the best thing ever and, yeah, Sam likes to believe that, too. 

He follows over that edge not too many moments later, shaking like he did on Sam's tongue back then and on the first time Sam saw it, when he had been the one pumping the toy deep and then deeper. All sound is choked off on the base of his throat and while it's a blessing that he is able to do it, it is a downright crime to rob Sam of them. Even from this far away, he can watch Dean's entire body spasm, but nowhere as hard and beautiful as where he's breached open for Sam's visual pleasure. 

Silicone hits wooden floor and Sam still hasn't stopped coming. Dean just watches him, legs wide and pupils blown, one hand splayed over his chest that is streaked with moonlight and come. 

"Still?" 

Sam's answer is a grunt into the mattress. 

"Dude." The omega's eyes sliding over his bare body make Sam twitch even harder. "… Can I see it?" 

_Everything, all of it, of course_. "Yeah," he huffs in abbreviation and rolls over on his back as controlled as he can without shooting a single drop into the omega's direction. His fist is tight around his knot and his belly covered in come in seconds, but _Dean wants to see_ , so Sam'll give that to him. 

He hisses at the sharp pain that bolts through his genitals when he lets go of that baseball-thick part that is supposed to be engulfed in something very tight when it's swollen like this, but he contracts his abdominal muscles and gives Dean a clear view for a good handful of seconds. 

All he hears is a breathless "shit" before it's too much and he has to roll back into his pressure-delivering position on his stomach. Through the relieve of pain, he blinks his eyes open and finds Dean so close to his face that he thinks he blacked out and this here is a dream. The good kind. 

"Never really saw one before," Dean confesses. 

Sam tugs his mouth into a satisfied smile that he rubs into the sheets. The first. _He's the first_. 

"It's a bit scary, to be honest." He's calmer, now that the edge is taken off of him. Sam envies him. "I didn't think it'd really be this _thick_. Like a damn softball. Jesus." 

"Your toy's bigger," Sam grits. 

"But you're still growing." 

Sam blinks. Oh. "Maybe," he huffs. 

"I think you will. Think you'll make one picture-perfect alpha one day." His heart takes a leap inside of his chest when Dean leans in on him and takes a deep inhale right above his hairline. The content sigh on the exhale sends goosebumps down his spine and make his hips jerk. "Yeah. Pretty sure." 

"I thought you hated alphas." 

Dean side-eyes him angrily before dropping down on his back again. "I do, yeah." 

Sam has to collect his bravery through a mist of what feels like electric shocks to the base of his cock in sometimes more and sometimes less intense and regular intervals. "So, I don't wanna be like that." Dean doesn't answer, maybe didn't hear him because he muffles his voice in the sheets, so Sam turns his head the slightest bit and croaks again. "Dun wanna be someone you hate." 

"… Sam. You know there isn't ever. _Ever_. Gonna be anything between us. Don't you?" 

He listens for the pines on the other side of the window but only finds his own, labored breathing. 

"I ain't someone you want to be around. Trust me." 

Exhaustion eventually pulls him into deep, dreamless sleep, not long after his orgasm finally subsides. Dean has his back turned to him. 

When he wakes up, he is alone. 

After breakfast, Dean still hasn't resurfaced, and Sam starts to reek of worry. Too afraid to give away what had happened last night, he is unable to ask. 

To keep himself from panicking and peeling the last bits of skin from the back of his hands, he offers Benny help with picking firewood. The alpha eyes him and Sam hates that, the way everyone seems to be able to read him. 

"Sure, boy," Benny hums, "Sure." 

It takes a good twenty minutes of silence before one of them speaks. It's not Sam, obviously, because he is so horrified of angering the older man further that he has his mouth glued shut. 

"I dunno what happened last night," Benny starts, and Sam's stomach flips in guilt, "and I dun _wanna_ know, either… But sure I hope you know what you got yourself into." 

Benny has his back turned to Sam but in the silence of the forest, only interrupted by their steps through twigs and rotten leaves, it's easy to listen. Even despite the mumbling. 

"You've gotta understand my brother, boy. He's so young, so fertile - an' then you come along." He bends down to pick up a medium sized branch, weighs it in his hand and throws it away again. "As you can imagine, we don't have alphas up here often." 

Sam contemplates asking John for proper hiking boots once they're back on the road. His sneakers aren't made for this. "That bad?" he huffs under his breath. 

Benny presents a raised eyebrow over his shoulder and then faces forwards again. "I'm a vampire, an' not even _I_ look at people as if they were a piece of meat like that. Not even speaking of how they treat 'im. Or _talk_ to 'im." Benny's shoulders droop a little with a deep, deep sigh. "Society's rotten, that's all it is. No better than slavery. An' lemme tell ya, _that_ was some fucked up shit." 

Sam frowns, wonders. "How old are you, exactly?" 

Benny laughs and his entire back moves with it. "True gentleman, aren't we, Winchester?" 

"I'm sorry." 

"Old enough to tell you to be real' careful about who you get close to, that's what I am, boy." 

"Is this about Dean?" 

"It's always about Dean." 

Sam grits his teeth. "You're not his mate." 

"I'm aware of that." 

"Then maybe you should let _him_ pick who he wants to be around." 

Now, Benny stops, even turns around. Sam almost walks into him, almost. Benny might be short, but damn, is he massive. Massive and impressive. Especially when his face is this tense. 

"Maybe, boy," he says, all calm and slow but oh, Sam doesn't need an instruction about how this is a warning sign and nothing less, "maybe you should get rid o' that 'know-it-all'-attitude o' yours. Lemme tell you this, and lemme get this one straight: You hurt my brother, and I swear to the almighty above, I will rip you apart limb by limb." 

Sam doesn't dare to move and Benny doesn't, either. He isn't being let off the hook that easy, huh. Damn. "I don't intend to do that," he assures, shoulders bowed and voice soft like he knows one addresses a superior alpha. 

"Oh, nobody _intends_ to, boy, nobody. But you two? I'm not blind. Your father 'n I, we turn our backs and the first thing you idiots do is smack back together like two sides of a damn magnet." 

Benny's voice rumbles from deeper and deeper in his chest. Sam imagines smelling the faint foulness of grief. 

"He isn't used to that. You can't come here an' turn 'im insane just because you like to play with what's between his legs." 

"It's not like that," Sam chokes. 

"Is it? Oh my. Well, tell me then, boy, what you plan to do after your job here is done? Pack your things and leave with daddy? Knock my brother up and leave 'im here with me? You know, I wouldn't mind you guys bangin' your freakin' brains out, trust me, I wish there was a way. It'd do him good. But contraception for male o's - they're a fortune. We can't afford that, and either can that cute lil' college fund of yours. So we're stuck with him like it is - and all I can do is keep him safe from brats like you who think as far as their knots will go and then let 'im pick up the pieces afterwards. An' he couldn't do it, damn me, but I know. I just _know_. It'd break him." 

He watches Benny's jaw twitch, his mouth pull and bend in order to keep control. 

"I can't have that, not again. Twice is enough. He's barely back together _now_ , I- If you hurt 'im," and he repeats, so much lower and so much more dangerous than the first time, "If you hurt 'im, boy - I will find you. An' I'll make sure you won't be able to hurt anybody ever again." 

Sam hears the truck roar through the woods when the sun is about to set. With it returns Dean's scent, just as sweet as he remembers it to be, maybe even richer. It has Sam sigh in more than one way. 

He watches Dean exit and rummage around the truck from inside the cabin. Before the omega makes his way back, he pulls some lifeless rabbits from the loading space. Benny runs into him before Dean can reach the door and, with bowed heads, they talk for a while. Sam crunches his nose, and that isn't caused by the smell of fresh blood. They part, but Dean won't let his gaze wander over the windows, doesn't see Sam watch him. When Sam tries to start a conversation in the hallway, Dean treats him nothing more or less like thin air and practically walks through him. 

What is he supposed to do? Nothing seems to make sense, nothing seems to work. Dean's mood changes faster than the wind changes direction, turns from suckpullwanthot to colder than ice, fucking barbed wire. Useless, Sam remains in the place Dean's shoulder shoved into him in the hallway and watches Dean pick out several tools from the kitchen. Then he leaves for the backyard to gut the rabbits. 

A few moments later, the mix of the hares' bitter blood and Dean's honeysuckle skin makes Sam's stomach hurl. 

"We'll take them down the day after tomorrow," John decides, "I don't see any reason to wait any longer." 

"They just fed," Benny nods, "They'll rest for a while now." 

Three more people had to die because they hadn't acted earlier. Sam doesn't dare to really think into the possibility of it being his and Dean's fault and fortunately the tension isn't focused on them, either. Still. Three lives, gone. If anything, Sam wants to grab a machete and invade the damn nest by foot right about now. 

Opposite him, Dean just nods his silent approval, tumbler of whiskey in his hand dancing between resting on his thigh and on his mouth. Sam alternates between staring at the omega and into the long neck of his bottle of root beer. One is just as frustrating as the other. 

"Maybe five in the morning. Sun should be up by then." Everyone nods. "Alright. We have a plan, then." John's eyes come to a halt on Dean then, delivering that sharp sting of distrust even to Sam who is just a bystander in this. But Dean returns it without hesitation. "You sure it won't be a problem?" 

An exaggerated slow sip of thick gold-brown liquid later, Dean's voice is so rough and low that it feels like someone rubs a piece of sandpaper down Sam's back. "Hundred percent, Sir." 

What do they mean, exactly? Sam feels left out. If John didn't believe in Dean's skills, he wouldn't have agreed to work with him. So, what now? 

"It's how we always do it," Benny assures and refills his of glass, "He will manage." 

"We're talking _seventeen vampires_ here." 

"As I said: He will manage." 

Okay, enough. "What will Dean manage?", Sam snaps. 

It's silent for the few seconds everyone takes to roll their eyes at Sam like he's the only one who doesn't get the joke here. Which might be true, but… still. No need to rub it in. His fist closes tighter around the bottle while he tries to keep up the eye contact with his father. 

"You know what 'mate-induced heat' means, son?" 

All blood rushes into his face and leaves his toes ice cold. His stomach might digest itself instead of the roast he put in there half an hour ago. 

"Yeah. Well. It's starting, if you haven't noticed. Vamps _will_ notice. Like a damn neon sign above our heads." 

It doesn't escape Sam's attention how Dean's jaw ticks at the choice of words. Yeah. Great, Dad. Just great. 

"I told you," Dean grits, "it won't happen until a handful 'a days from here. It's _enough_ time to-"  
"Well, excuse me; you might like to tell yourself that nobody can smell you five miles windward from here, but-" 

Dean's tumbler hits the coffee table hard enough to spill half its content on the floor. Nobody but Sam seems to startle from the sudden outburst. "I KNOW!! Okay?! I fucking damn KNOW!" 

"Brother, please calm d-" 

"NO, I won't; okay?! We TOLD him, okay, we TOLD YOU, old man, that this is EXACTLY how we work!! I go out there, draw these motherfuckers out, and before they know what hit 'em they got _both_ _our_ _knifes_ up their throats. Problem fuckin' SOLVED. We TOLD you, so if you've got a PROBLEM with that, maybe you should LEAVE RIGHT FUCKIN' NOW 'cause I'm SICK 'N TIRED of your fuckin' SEXISM in _MY_ FUCKIN' HOUSE!!" 

It all happens so fast that Sam gets dizzy from craning his neck to Dean who stomps out of the cabin and then to Benny who starts going after him but slumps back into the couch at the sound of the backdoor slamming shut and finally to John who reeks of aggression and humiliation and throws Sam a look that screams "Please tell me I'm not the only one who heard that right now" through that gaping, voiceless mouth. 

Sam mirrors the bewilderment and hopes his panic overshadows his amusement. The root beer hits the coffee table in tandem with him jumping to his feet. "Kinda had that one comin', Dad," he croaks before running after the sounds of hiking boots on forest ground. 

There had been a plan of pulling Dean into a tight, calming hug, but it kind of gets discarded at the sight of pre-heat-syndrome struck omega in combination with a fucking _axe_. 

Wow. That is one poor-ass tree right there. 

Timid steps must seem almost comical against the fury Dean unleashes those few feet away but damn, Sam is scared out of his mind right now to truly care about that. "Hey," he tries, then once more, louder, as he himself can barely hear what he just said over the blows of metal into wood and feral grunts that come along with them. 

"LEAVE," is all Dean can spare between two heavy whacks. 

Oh shit shit shit maybe he _should_ leave. If he fancies the idea of a full set of limbs, anyway. But he can't. 

He won't leave it like that, leave Dean like that. It's his responsibility, after all. "Please, I'm- I just wanna apologize." 

No reaction, no change in intensity. 

Fuck. "I, uh. I didn't know that, that you, uh. How you two worked. I didn't know. He didn't tell me." 

He's almost through and it's been, what, five minutes? Jesus Christ. 

It doesn't exactly matter what he says, he figures. Not when Dean is like that. He knows that blind rage, that helplessness, knows it just too well. But he wants to let him know that he is here, that there is someone who cares about him and his feelings and who wants him to get better. Sam would like to be that someone for Dean. He is sick and tired of knowing himself how it feels not to have that someone. 

"It must be hella scary," he thinks out loud, sweat-drained palms rubbing off against the rough denim of his too-warm jeans, "Goin' first, I mean. Dad never lets me do that." 

Only a few more. By now, his cotton t-shirt has turned a few shades darker where sweat drains the fabric. 

Sam swallows. "It kinda sucks. I mean. I'd like to be that strong, that reliable. I wanna help him, not be a burden. But on the other hand…" 

The axe is thrown to the ground. Dean's entire body moves under his intense breathing, neck tight and arms bulging from the exercise. It's not very omega to be this muscled. Then again, Dean isn't very omega in general. 

"… it scares the shit outta me." 

Dean circles the tree and locks eyes with Sam over his outstretched arm that pushes the trunk until it tips. If anybody would have ever told Sam that an omega could be scary, intimidating, downright _horrifying_ in their rage, he would have laughed into that someone's face. Then again, he hadn't met Dean back then. 

"I dunno how you do it," he breathes. 

Between thinking and speaking the words out loud, he realizes he's so in love that he might drown in it. 

The tree falls with an outstretched moan, followed by rustling of leaves and branches. Dean doesn't look away from Sam when he spits on the ground and Sam is too afraid to look away, too. His heart can't decide between doubling its effort or stopping altogether at the first long step by bowed legs into his direction. 

An arm's length divides them but it's enough for their breath to mix; sour and whiskey and roast and terror and heat. 

"I ain't scared," Dean croaks. His face and neck is flushed red from exertion everywhere but where the scars leave the skin numb and pale. "Never was." 

Sam wants to run and cry and kiss Dean and shove Dean away and tell him he's never ever felt like this before and will never ever feel like this ever again. And he can't, because there are no words that seem to do all of it justice. 

A bead of sweat drops from the longer strands of Dean's bangs. "There's nothing for me to lose." 

He says that, easy as that, while Sam is right in front of him, willing to give and do anything and on the brink of tears from the stunning beauty and magnificence of this being that is Dean. 

He says that, and easy as that, Sam clashes their mouth together hard enough to taste iron and the boiling sting in his colliding teeth is only soothed by the fact of Dean's skin and Dean's sweat and Dean under his palms where he wraps them around that face and that neck he never wants to let go of ever again. 

Omega-moan in his mouth makes his cock fatten to perfection, omega-hands around his waist pulling them together make him rut against that twin presenting itself behind that other zipper. "You have me," and he licks the words into that tongue and that gums until they're carved in there, "Have _me_ , I'm here, you've got _me_!" 

The response is a sob, heartbreaking and hot and terrible enough to make Sam push them both over, and Dean sobs even harder at that but his legs part and bend outwards like it's programmed into his limbs what to do. Sam fits there like this space is made for him, just for him, and doesn't let that mouth alone while he ruts into the denim-clad cleft of Dean's ass. 

Fists punch-caress him, rub and grip and scratch and Dean smells so good all of a sudden, like he's supposed to be eaten alive. Sam's mouth closes around that tensed, bared neck and licks up all the sweat there is until there is only flesh and flesh alone is what can satisfy his hunger now so he _bites_. 

A yelp comes from close where his mouth is and pierces his eardrums in its volume, but the sharp nails dig-pulling in his neck are what really snaps him out of it. Suddenly he hears those _nononono's_ , smells that panic; is pushed off before he knows it. 

Dean is on his feet and already three steps away before Sam can see through that veil of tears he cannot remember developing in the first place. 

"I can't, _I can't_ ; I'm sorry, please, _please_ just leave me alone, PLEASE." 

Suddenly, the air is cold when it reaches his lungs, that addicting throb between his legs swapped with a painful ache. Sweat becomes ice on his skin and he slumps back into dead leaves and damp moss just in time to keep his vision from going black. 

Over the ringing in his ears, he can listen to the receding, hectic steps that eventually end in the slam of a door. 

"Please, I just want to talk t-" 

"No." 

He's about to cry again. "Please," he begs, "Please, just- just two minutes; I-" 

Benny moves into his space and makes him duck his head in painful servility that has him sobbing. "Give me one good reason, boy, one is enough. You hear me? You'll take your stuff and your father and leave after we tore apart that nest. Don't you make me repeat myself." 

Like when he was eight and it all had been too much, the new school and the mean kids there and the endless hours of workouts in the blasting sun and that graze on his upper arm that just _wouldn't_ _heal_ , Sam cries and cries and cries until he thinks he is too dry to go on. His body has always been good at surprises, though. He cannot fall asleep until three am. 

The next day, Sam carries that headache around with himself like a sad trophy, all from that crying and Dean's scent that is a mixture between numbing honey-sweet and gut-wrenching sour-stale. It's all over the house even though he has locked himself into his bedroom and only lets Benny in to bring him food that Sam watches return downstairs barely half-eaten. 

John and him spend most of the day outside, sitting in silence for the majority of it because there's just so much time you can spend on sharpening machetes and pulling Dead Man's Blood into syringes, even while using surgeon-like precision. Sam suggests using them blowpipe style like it's done with wild animals' tranquilizers, but John is either too focused or not focused at all and merely grunts in response. 

When he sniffs the air, Sam pays attention that it's downwind _with_ and not against the house so it's not too heavy with Dean. Rain announces itself with rich, moist smell. It's a big relieve for him because it will dull the pheromones' range. 

That night, he dreams of Dean's throat. Ripped open and not only emptied of but smeared with all that heatsweetpulsing blood, it's no less appealing than when Sam himself had sunk his teeth into it. When he wakes, he barely makes it into the bathroom before he throws up water and stomach acids. It won't stop until John bangs on the door to tell him it's time to go. 

The truck is small but the gap between Dean and him seems endless. On the passenger seat, the omega presses himself against the door as close as he can, searching for the soothing coolness of metal and glass in the slight fever of early heat. On the backseat behind the driver, Benny, Sam's fingers tremble around his chin while he witnesses the rain wash away the deep deep blue of night. 

It's another good ten minutes by feet before they reach the nest but the truck pulls to a halt anyway. The fact that there are no sentinels could either be a very good or a very very _very_ bad sign. Dean sniffles and Benny sighs with his hands still tight around the wheel. 

"Let's do this," the omega rasps. 

Sam's heart is pounding so loud in his ears that he can barely hear him. His eyes feel sore when they follow Benny's hand from wheel to Dean's neck. The affection in that touch, the intimacy and softness of it, is sad and beautiful and disgusting all at once. 

And Dean mirrors the gesture. It seems impossible that this same hand could have wrapped itself around that axe handle with as much force as Sam had watched it happen. 

It's like a ceremony between the two of them, as if John and Sam weren't right behind them. With their heads bowed, they're creating a space of their own, arms like a barrier on each other's shoulders. Safe. Secure. Sheltered. 

Over the drum of raindrops down the metal hood, Sam imagines hearing a whisper coming from Benny. Low and secret, only for him and maybe Dean but no one else in the whole wide world. 

It's a prayer. Their prayer. 

"'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow 'f death, I'll fear no evil-" 

Sam might suffocate on the love in that soft emphasizing squeeze around the omega's neck. Between those meaty fingers, blue and purple mark the place Sam's teeth had sealed his doom. 

"-fo' you are with me.'" 

And it's wrong. All of it is wrong. 

This should be him. This should be his hand. _His_ , and nobody else's. 

Dean ends it with a soft hush of "'-an' I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever'" and Sam knows he will never be able to live with that echo of it missing on the inside of his skin. 

The car door swings open and Dean is gone. 

Benny says "half a minute", so Sam counts every second twice and can barely hold back sprinting ahead of the other two when it's finally finally finally time to follow the omega. He's so empty he's sharp again, on the edge like a junkie right before a long overdue shot but determined like a wolf that has to get that sheep or he will die of starvation in an hour's time. 

Stale blood and rotting meat covers their smells but Sam manages to tell apart and localize at least three of the strongest alphas. There might be an omega or two, female, a handful of betas. It's a colorful nest and maybe that's why they're so difficult to pin down and take out. Vampires themselves smell like nothing, just like they don't have a reflection. When they _do_ , it's their victim's cell cocktail in their stomachs, their veins, being picked apart in their flesh. 

But nothing, nothing of all of it could ever cover that never-ending trace Dean's heat pours from every pore of his skin. 

The front door is wide open and it baffles Sam before he realizes that if you're as obvious about arriving as an omega is - heat or not -, using sneaky side- or backdoors isn't exactly something you have to worry about. 

Fighting noise along with familiar, struggled breathing has him lose it and he runs into that barn without thinking twice. There is no fear in him, not a single atom that screams "no". He arrives just in time to see a second head join the one already to Dean's feet. 

The omega is barely as out of breath as Sam is, so calm in the way he looks at Sam with his eyes so big and shiny in the early morning sun falling in from the gate into the darkness of the barn that, if Sam wouldn't taste that spicy adrenaline and heartbeat on his tongue, he'd be freaked out about it. 

The grace Dean uses to put his finger to his lips very very slowly already is enough to make Sam's cock throb in sympathy. 

_He's covering us,_ he has to tell himself, _they can't smell us, Dean's is too strong, they only smell him, only him-_

A foreign voice shrieks "ALPHAS!" and suddenly, all hell breaks loose. 

He's got a beta down by the time he realizes he's done it, searches for his father in the darkness and finds him with his blade sliding through stomach and spinal cord as if vampires were made of butter. 

They've discussed this. They all have their roles. 

Dean draws them out, covers the three of them. Well, it wasn't supposed to get this messy, but the intention remains the same: _Thin 'em until the alphas pop out_. Obviously - and Benny confirmed that theory -, the ones lower in the hierarchy will jump out first. Cannon fodder. And then, best is last. 

Benny doesn't know this nest's leader, so maybe they have been turned recently and just started putting together their community. Which would be good. Because they might be the strongest of them all, but that doesn't mean they are strong _per se_. On the other hand: Benny does not know all vampire alphas there are. 

When Sam turns back to Dean, he's in an entirely different corner, slicing some entirely different vamp's throat. Benny is nowhere to be seen, which is good, because he's their back-up. A dozen syringes rest in his belt, two more ready in his hands and another two around his ankles - this is how he stays hidden and scent-less until it _really_ goes down in here. 

Dean's chin is sprinkled scarlet-cold and almost distracts Sam from the alpha jumping him from the hayloft, almost; but Dean turns to look at him and his face falls and distorts even before he bellows his name and it's like pure life to Sam's blood. He bends, jumps, swings; beheads; and it's one fluid motion, automatic, all for his omega. 

His, he thinks. _His_. 

They mow through the monsters like it's just another rough Monday in their business, and it is, isn't it?, until Sam hears John's blade scatter to the ground and then his body and he's faster than he thought he could be, rams that blade so deep into that skull that he strains a muscle in his shoulder and _fuck_ does it hurt; but fuck, that alpha hurts more, and it's perfect. 

John doesn't deserve his eyes, he gives them to Dean, Dean who stares breathless, and yes, this was an alpha, one of those three he had smelled earlier, a good one. All for him. He does it all for him, really. Nothing else matters. 

Countless bodies scattered over the floor are nothing, bare props under his feet when he crosses them, flies, because Dean is over there and every inch between them too much. Dean is frozen in place, covered and shiny with slowly blackening blood, and he tastes like it too when Sam licks into that open mouth, short, stabbing little motions, because this is play, he's all puppy with his omega this restless, this nervous. 

"Come with me," he breathes into blood and spit and flesh, machete warm in his fist like another limb he'd sacrifice to Dean without a second thought, "Come with me and be mine. I love you, omega, I love you so much. Please. Please, be mine, please." 

Sam's eyes flutter closed at that wave of slick, Dean's panting rough and warm against his mouth, that hesitation, that sweet pain of picking those letters from this raw, tight throat- 

The world tips along with him and Dean's howl. 

Blood sheds that shouldn't be shed and explodes on the delicate hairs inside of Sam's nose. 

Alpha rips omega down with him and hiss-curses at the effort he has to make to pull the rusty poker out of that shoulder. "Oh, you stupid lil' _bitch_ ," ancient gravel rumbles before he swings his arm with that too-bloody, too-wrong poker to hit Sam's stomach and send him flying into the opposite direction of where he was headed; towards them, to Dean, his omega, his _mate_ \- 

The sound of his ribs breaking is unnaturally louder in his ears than his body's impact with that wooden pole is. 

"You think you're so smart, sweetheart, don't you," Sam hears through hay and dust and ringing ears and crunching bone, even over his omega's cries of pain and distress and it's _his_ fault, _he_ should have been the one who- "Mmmh, God, you smell _good_." 

Benny is over there, not too far away, but another two alphas are on him and he can't get away; John had to switch to his left arm and so far away he probably can't even see his own son lying face-down in splinters and vampire carcasses. 

No. No no no no no. 

Not like this. 

Please, God, not like this. 

"Virgin, too. My my. This is a rare sight, isn't it." 

Sam sobs along with his omega like it's his shoulder that poker rams into again. But it's Dean's shriek, his blood alone. 

"Didn't have heated blood like that in ages-" 

Metal clatters. Sam howls. 

"Nuh-uh-uh. What a bad little girl, pokin' me with that bad bad blade of yours. Where are your manners?" 

Dean is unarmed now, arms probably pinned down, shoulder pierced to the muddy ground by a metal rod as thick as his most certainly broken collar bone. Sam shouts for help, anyone, Dad, Benny; because he can't move and curses himself for the weakness of his bones and the tenderness of his flesh and how easy it is to break him and that it will be _his fault_ , his fault alone. 

He thinks back to that afternoon in the Impala, alone with Dean when everything was still brand-new and easy and Dean still looked at him like he was just a kid, just a kid and nobody to worry about. 

If he would have just offered Dean to let him drive wherever he would have wanted to go… where would they be right now? 

Sam loses his breath at the sound of snapping bone. 

Through his fuzzy vision, because every movement is torture but he _has_ to look up to them, has to, there are Dean's breathtaking features all scrunched up in pain and exertion. The head in his hands is bent in a degree that shoots blood back into every corner of Sam's body and air into every empty room his lungs allow him to fill. 

Dean's mouth is so tight and eyes so full of blood it must take all of his strength and then some to first hold and then _throw_ the lifeless alpha off of him. There barely is any hesitation before he rips the poker from both the ground and his flesh with one sharp yelp. 

Knees bend and arms don't even touch the floor before the omega flips his body onto its feet, coming up slow, very slow and maybe a bit shaking before Sam realizes the entire barn is silent but for four troubled breaths. 

The poker flies across the hall. Sam's body is light. 

"I'm no _bitch_ ," Dean growls, clear as day against morning light and chirping birds. 

_Mine_ , Sam thinks while slumping back into the hay with a dimple-pulling smile on his lips, _mine_. 

"You a big boy," Dean hums against the bandages, "You'll live." 

Sam looks at him like he's hung the moon. It might be true as far as he is concerned. In Dean's room, Dean's _bed_ , he doesn't need no pills to make him forget about his pain. 

"You said that to me before," he huffs, caps of his fingers dragging over that smooth, omega-hairless skin, worshipping the freckles there with a blink of his eyes for every single one of them. 

Dean follows their trail down his arm with his eyes, so cloudy and soft for him. And he smiles. _He smiles_. "You takin' notes on everything I say, nerd?" 

"Maybe," Sam teases. 

"Amuse me." 

There's a fresh wave of slick and Sam chuckles at the tingle it shoots up his thighs. He's been hard for hours now and Dean is kneeling in front of the bed only because he thinks his ass being farther away from Sam's nose will make it any less obvious how wet he is for him. As if. "You want to drive 'cross the country," he recites, because it's really sort of a poem in his head, like a clip from a movie with the sun on the Impala's paint reflecting on Dean's skin, "With my car." 

"Your _daddy's_ car," the omega corrects. 

"Mine by next year," he reminds with a wink. Dean entwines their fingers when he is tired of Sam tickling the many lines on his palm. 

Every blink, every heartbeat is for his omega now. He puts his love in every syllable, every breath he takes and gives, every second their skins touch. His promise. His plead. 

"'S not like I could just drive off with someone else's car," Dean says, free hand ghosting over the many scars Sam has earned from early age on, the small collection he keeps all across his right arm. He stops on the biggest one from that stupid ninja phase. Shuriken are bitchy to handle but now that early mistake earns him the soft touch of Dean, _his_ Dean, Dean's fingers, so soft like he could rip that old thing right open with too much force. 

The lines of what Dean is able to rip in and on Sam reach from the tip of his toenails to the ends of his hairs, though. "Drive off with _me_ then." 

Dean doesn't look up from that small beloved spot. 

"Come with me." He squeezes that hand that saved him and doomed him enough times to justify a lifetime of servitude. His answer is yes, will be yes, forever. "Let me take you away. Where ever you want to go, I'll take you." 

"It doesn't matter where I go," Dean mutters eventually. He might look into the direction of that scar but he's somewhere else. "I can't run." 

"I'll protect you," the alpha in himself vows. 

Dean's nail drags over the bump that is scarred tissue. "I was thirteen, you know. Thirteen." 

Something lifts from Sam's eyes, like a veil from a bride's countenance. 

"I was thirteen, and they sold me off. Illegal, yeah; but he paid good and I guess they could use the money to feed a lot more mouths than mine." 

"Alpha?" Sam asks. 

"Alpha," Dean nods. 

He closes his eyes because he cannot take the sight, not along with those words. There is just so much pain he can endure at once. 

"Back then, I thought he was _ancient_. Meaning, like, he was maybe forty at most; but I dunno." One finger becomes two. They rub along the lines they find, connect them like painting by numbers. "He had those… very blue eyes. Crazy blue. I remember those. I see 'em almost every night. Never stopped dreaming of 'em." 

Sam runs the script of that bonfire night through the distorted surface of his mind. "How'd you escape?" he croaks. 

"There was, uhm." Dean hesitates. His fingers rub harder before they flutter away. "He was about to… He wanted to-" 

"Okay, it's okay; you don't have to say it." He babbles it and looks at Dean again, finds him so far away that he has to reach out for him and cup his hand with his other one to make him snap out of whatever scene must be playing behind those eyes. 

"M-my second heat," the omega remembers behind a focused frown, "My second, but the first one since he took me home with 'im. He said he always was nice to me, so I'd… have to be nice to him, too. He said it wouldn't hurt... He said I wouldn't have to be scared." 

It hurts, it hurts so bad, but Sam can't look away, he can't leave his omega alone; not anymore, not ever again. 

"But I _was_ scared," Dean croaks, "Scared out of my _mind_. I knew what it'd mean. I was a child myself, Sammy, I couldn't give birth to- _I couldn't_." 

Fanned lashes blinks tears away until they betray and roll where a trembling hand wipes them away. 

Dean stares at his hands, those wet spots he put there, like he wonders what to do with them. 

Then, he decides. 

"He was straddling me, I couldn't get away. He was about to do it, and it was very close, but I..." 

He takes a break to swallow. Sam mirrors it. 

"I got hold of a, what do you call 'em? Candlestick? 'T was on the nightstand, I dunno. 'T was heavy." 

Sam thinks of the expression on Dean's face when he broke that vampire's neck a few hours ago. His eyes have that same, cold flame to them, somehow. 

"I hit him over the head with it, once 'n hard, an' he, uhm." 

Shame floods the room and Sam inhales it like it's incense. 

"He stopped moving." 

Nothing can make this go away, nothing. No word, nothing he can do. All he can do is lie here and hold Dean's hand in his own. 

"And then I ran. I never looked back, and I just ran. Never again, I told myself, never again. Never again I will let this happen to me." 

"And then Benny found you?" Sam mutters. 

"And then Benny found me," Dean nods, thinks, melts into a sad smile that _is_ one. And God, what would Sam give for it _not_ to be. "When I think about it, I was pretty stupid, huh. Runnin' into another alpha's arms straight away. God knows what would have happened if it hadn't been him." 

"I wish you wouldn't look like that when you think of him," alpha-mouth confesses in puppy-voice. 

Dean's smile explode on his mouth. The press of it onto the shuriken scar is enough to take Sam's breath away. "Jealous?" omega-throat purrs. 

"Always," Sam breathes, "Of anyone." 

"Look at you. Big bad alpha, huh." Another kiss, a tickle of lashes. Dean whispers it into his skin when he says: "My puppy." 

Sam's dick jolts against his shorts and the thin sheets. "Yours," he vows, squirming at the throb in his loins, "I'm yours, _forever_ ; please. _Please, omega_." 

Dean chuckles his exhale and Sam's shorts start sticking to the sheets. "Mine, huh. Like the sound of that." A path of kisses grows along the blue underneath his skin. Sam's insides are lit on fire over and over again with each new one. "Anything, alpha? Will you do anything for me?" 

He gasps for air at the title, the _honor_. "Anything," he promises, barely audible at this point. 

On the next heartbeat, Dean's eyes are at the same height as his own. 

He's so beautiful, perfect. His, his, and he needs, needs, will die for this man. 

With his voice so small and fragile that it pulls a whine from Sam's mouth before Dean kisses there, Dean pleads: "Make me forget." 

Every time he kisses him, it seems, there is more to explore, more to feel, to smell, taste, love. Sam's ribs are forgotten and Dean's shoulder seems to be the same because all sound they make when alpha pulls omega up and over and under himself are those little happy things you usually hear over a good meal. 

He's so warm beneath him, skin burning up like the most appealing thing for Sam to get marked by. "We don't have to, I- If you don't wanna, then-" 

Dean licks his mouth in time with their dicks meeting under two thin coats of cotton. Both of them are so wet that Sam can hear their skins slide in the combined mess of it. 

"'S okay, I'm- Do it, just, j-just-" 

The arms around his back remind him of his broken bones with a violent squeeze, but if it's the price for pushing his dick down farther and farther, right where it's wettest behind scrunched up fabric, then he'll pay it every second for the rest of his life. 

"Just don't hurt me," Dean wheezes. His legs did only spread wider, open and so ready for Sam, but he's shaking in not only the one, right way, and he's holding on to his alpha like he's about to drown if he lets go. He's always presenting in doubles like that, isn't he. 

Sam thinks he might be in love with that trait as well. "I can stop," he offers, breathless and into the spit in the corner of Dean's mouth, their spit, "I'll stop, just tell me." 

But Dean kisses, grinds, forces the tip of his dick inside with both of their underwear in between so that Sam's hips can't help but _snap_. 

He has to keep control, needs to, he has to be responsible for the both of them. "You'll get pregnant," he sobs. 

"Jus' take me, do it." It's both of their sweat, both of their tears on their skin. In the end, it's simple salt from their bodies. "I'm so sick 'n tired of it, of runnin', _always runnin'_ , I can't _take_ it anymore-" 

Later, he'll find that he tore his shorts off, maybe because they didn't slide down as fast as he had wanted them to. He's so thick in his own fist, swollen to a point where his blood seems to be just right underneath the surface of it, right underneath the skin. 

And Dean. Oh, Dean. 

He's so desperate for it in his heat, panting so hard when his shorts slide up the curve of his ass, just high enough for Sam to have access. His fingers wrap around the drooling crown to guide him through all that mess, and Sam groans so hard that he is sure the entire house heard him. 

But he had heard Dean and Benny talking. Smelled Benny's concern and Dean's calmness, drew the frown over the image in his head he has from that vamp, because "Are you sure?" and "You can still stop this, brother". And Dean's head, how it shook so slightly, so pure, because "No", no, they were destined to end up exactly here the second Sam had caught that scent for the very first time, on the passenger seat of the Impala and twelve miles away from this cabin. 

Because he knows all this, he can do this. Because he knows Dean means it. 

They're different. People seem to think they know them, that they can decide for them; but they are different. Nobody can understand them. 

Sam's hips start working on their own, tip barely aligned to that irresistible pull inside of Dean and they already roll, breach easily with every contact, unfurl the tight muscle like it's nothing; but Dean chants _slowslowslow_ into his ear, so he digs toes and elbows into the mattress and grits his teeth until his body is straight enough in line not to shove in to the hilt on the first go. 

The drag is easy, like Dean is a new layer of skin for Sam's body to possess. They gasp but there is no oxygen that could ever fulfill the need of their lungs right now; they're lost and doomed and it's what Sam believes he endured every pain and humiliation and terrible thing for - this moment and this moment alone. 

Omega-hiccups underneath him make him hush that plush mouth, press forehead against forehead and Dean's grip around his dick is so strangling, as if he would break it in two at one wrong move. Sam pulls back a bit when the tip reaches the second entrance all-too early, slow, he reminds, _slow_ ; and Dean's rim catches around the edge of his glans like it doesn't want to let go and it's so good and wet and silken smooth that he spills such a thick drop of precome inside of his omega which he is sure is enough already to make Dean's belly bulge with his baby inside. 

Baby. Kid. Sam is seventeen. He's gonna be a father. He sobs because it's surreal, because this has never been the plan. 

And then he sobs again. Because he hasn't known before, but now, now knows that this is everything and all that he ever could have wished for. 

Another bump against that fluttery little thing and it costs another sob and ten ounces of sweat from his skin to convince his body to listen to him. The withdrawal of omega-fist leaves a grateful swell on his dick. 

He opens his eyes and meets green. 

Dean's face is full of plead and horror and lust and love that he doesn't have to speak to make Sam understand. But he still does. 

"I trust you," he chokes. 

Before his own do the same, he watches Dean's eyes go soft and then swim, roll backwards into his skull. It's what it does to him, them. 

That tiny entrance, not more than a thinly muscled skin, is supposed to let a tiny tiny skull get through, but it barely stretches around the girth of Sam's cock, but it's enough, enough and more. 

Three slow thrusts before it's in all the way and Dean chokes on his tongue until Sam kisses it better. Then, he just whines. 

One of so many smooth thrusts ends with a wet slap and makes both their mouths gape anew. Without protest, Sam gets braver, quicker. He remembers the toy, how ruthless Dean used it, how he _likes_ it. And oh, does he _love_ this, humming and gasping so low in his chest that it's almost a growl, but no omega could possibly growl in this position, could they? 

On the other hand, this is Dean. 

"So good; feels so fuckin' damn _good_ , alpha-" 

Sam almost blacks out from the praise. He slams in harder, ribs not existent, only Dean's cervix pressed up into the slit of his dick. That mouth wails along with the creaking bedframe and Sam slams in again, shoving them against the wall, sweet wordless wonders and encouragements from Dean's throat. 

Closer, closer, not enough, never enough, so he curls in on and over that body, Dean's legs crossed on the small of his back, so strong and firm but _butter_ underneath him when he's pinned like that. Against that earlobe, Sam groans, huffs all pain and exertion right back into his omega's skin where it's sweetest, engulfed in slick and pink and everything he didn't know there was to have. 

Dean smells like soap and water and earth and sweat and wood and _Sam_. 

It's what makes him lose himself now, because this body is _his_ , isn't it?, so he makes Dean's thighs bounce with the impact he puts his hole through, mouths at that neck, bears his teeth along it and feels Dean's Adam's apple bob against his tongue in those silent prayers he fucks out of him. 

His head is spinning so hard because this is _right_ , this is what they're _destined_ to be, how it's _supposed_ to be like. 

"Don't let me go; take me away, take me away, take me _away_ -" 

He loses sight. 

All there is is the heat of Dean's body, the slip of their skins against each other, their bodies molded into one. There is breath and Sam isn't sure whose it is and he could cry from how happy that makes him. 

Dean can barely talk anymore, just as lost, but relentlessly hanging on to his back, nails dug so deep into his skin Sam prays they will leave eternal scars there. 

It's almost inaudible against their united wheezing, against the weight of Sam's knot pounding wider and wider into the incredibly firm little opening, just for him, just for him- 

" _Sammy_ ," he hears, right before it catches. 

Nothing has ever been like this. 

The first nanoseconds, he isn't even sure if he likes this. It seems too much to take, too wonderful, too blissed out. It cannot be possible to be this lucky, fulfilled. 

The edges become less fuzzier then, with that first violent gasp for air that makes him hear again. Then, that first ripple of Dean's body, the yelp against his neck, nails into his flesh - he might die from this. It's crazy and so so real in his head all of a sudden that he almost panics, caught in this boiling body. 

It all melts into a puddle with the first shot of his come. 

While his body is taut, Sam's head is light, empty, empty all but for that release that washes away all worries, all problems. Through his lashes, he watches Dean come undone, mouth just as pink and wet as the place where he is being filled to the brim, sweat beading on his forehead. It pools in the furrows of his brows and Sam licks it off, drinks every deep moan and thrash of limbs deep down where nobody can take it away from him ever again. 

Slow circles of his hips wring surprised mewls from that sweet mouth, a scandalized and horrified pair of eyes on his own at the dirty-wrong press of cockhead against the deepest parts of his womb, the swell of it from all the sticky white that doesn't seem to stop pumping into him. It's so new, for both of them. Nothing like a beta, nothing like a woman. No, Sam's body was made for _this_ , _this_ omega, _this_ Dean, _his_ _mate_. 

"Bite me," Dean mutters, his eyes so wide and confused that Sam isn't sure the omega knows that he's even saying it; but his teeth are in those tendons before both of them realize. Dean yelps then, half-surprise, half-painpleasurewrong; voice dry from all the exertion it had to go through up to here, to come this far, to have Sam lay his claim on him, deep into his skin. 

Right over those day-old bruises; right over where Benny had wrapped his fingers around, right where there wouldn't be anything to feel Dean's blood throb against his gums if the alpha vamp would have aimed for Sam's head instead of his heart. The perfect spot. The one and only. 

It had to end in this, it had to. Every second spent in this body paints a clearer picture of that. 

Dean is crying again by the time Sam lets go of his throat, all red and purple and spit-slick, convulses around the rocking length of Sam's dick because they both won't stop coming for the next few minutes no matter what happens, then keep tied and on the edge until they fall unconscious from the overstimulation. 

Fingers brush through the too-long strands of Sam's hair, pulling a knot into them here and there, a tongue flicking at his swollen mouth to soothe the ache they put upon themselves like the headless things they are for each other. 

And Dean does that for him, does that even though he knows just as well as Sam that this pain is their eternal paradise. 

Moonlight paints a sheet of gray over that already pale skin. Sam can't help but to sigh. 

"You okay?" Dean whispers. 

"I am," Sam smiles. 

Omega-lips curl in response. 

"You too?" he asks. 

Dean's lashes tickle his cheek. "Yeah," he breathes. 

Skin against his skin is warm, soft. He could sink right back in but decides against it, given how all of Dean smells like Sam and all of Sam seems to still be covered in Dean, too. He kisses a sigh onto those lips, hums at the calloused palms brushing his chest. 

There is a faint scent of milk. 

"Y'said you'd take me away," Dean whispers. 

"I did," he vows. 

Dean's lips slide open to show the straight white of his teeth, skin so smooth it barely wrinkles around his eyes when they flutter shut in a laugh. 

Sam chuckles in sympathy and because this is his, runs his too-bony fingers over those bumps on Dean's shoulder, signs of past and cruel times. "What is it?" 

"I just gotta, uh. 'M thinkin' of a song right now." 

His heart is wide enough to let the splinters of his ribs press into it, and God, if he has ever cared any less about anything, he had been delusional. "Sing it for me," Sam wishes. 

Dean eyes him like he did when they saw each other for the first time, through woods and across that clearing behind the cabin. Full of wonder and danger and too many possibilities to count. 

Eventually, he takes a small breath before he parts his lips for his alpha. 

Sam knows the song; John enjoys the really _classic_ classics sometimes. But this, this is an entirely different song from this throat. 

It's Dean, his heart, his soul. His own, innocent fairytale.

 

" _'Ridin' along in my automobile_

_My baby beside me at the wheel_

_I stole a kiss at the turn of a mile_

_My curiosity runnin' wild_

_Cruisin' and playin' the radio_

_With no particular place to_ -'

 

… Sam.

Hey, Sam.

… Hey.

Don't cry.

Shhh, it's okay. It's okay, big boy." 

He blames the hormones while Dean doesn't blame at all. His arms are strong where they wrap him into that chest, that smell of antiseptic and heat-flooded patch of blood in the bandage, sweet, calm chant of coos into his hair and ear. 

He vows, swears with every tear that this here will never end. That he will make Dean forget, like he has been asked to do it. 

He will replace. He will rebuild. 

He will do it. He has to. 

They don't bother to wake up John. Sam is pretty sure that he knew what would be happening anyway. If there is one thing about his father that Sam can say without a bitter undertone, it's how smart his old man is. That's also why he left the main keys on the kitchen table instead of in his stuff that Sam would have had to mess up in order to find them. 

The early rays of sunshine must burn on Benny's skin, Sam realizes. Vampire-eyes don't leave the back of Dean's head for what the omega needs to arrange their luggage until it fits the trunk. They don't have much. They don't need much, either. They will figure, Sam figures. Dean said it will be okay. 

The rear view mirror reflects those fragile pairs of shoulders, and again, omega seems to stand taller than alpha. His man is amazing like that. 

"Take care 'f you, brother," vampire chokes. 

Dean says nothing. Eventually, he shrugs his shoulders, swings his head. Sniffles. Sam can't be mad at him for it. "Thank you. For everythin'." 

Benny's face molds seamlessly into that dip between shoulder and neck, arms across too-firm omega-back. He put this there, all of this tissue, created this body, this man. He nurtured this lost child and allowed it to live, to defend himself against all evil and rotten. 

What happens to those who are beloved like sons, family members; to those who won't let themselves get turned? 

After how many centuries does loss become bearable? 

"You can always come back," is a breath and a tear into skin that forgot the heat of blood four long years ago. 

He knows he is watched from that curious passenger seat as goosebumps climb up his arm when he wraps his palm around the gearstick. There's a forbidden gush of scent, all fresh and heated from down between his legs and he gloriously ignores Sam's immature snickering about it. 

The engine roars alive and Dean clicks his tongue. "Better than sex," he grins. His foot pushes down onto the accelerator and they take off. 

Unseen, the cabin vanishes behind them. The forest won't thin out for a while, but when it does, there will be bright blue sky and nothing but slick-black asphalt. 

He will take a deep breath, inhale the new, the wild, the free. He will ask his alpha to turn on the radio. They didn't discuss it yet, but Dean will introduce the rule about who picks the music when it's the two of them in this car soon enough. Only a few more minutes though, a few more minutes of silence and nothing but the wind, the flutter of that heart in that chest next to him that is all his, all his. 

Blood scent swirls through his lungs, those forbidden corners he didn't dare to breathe into for almost a decade now. 

Twenty two. He had counted them. Twenty two times. 

Twenty two times and even the brightest blue is nothing but a puddle of smashed cells. 

A smile ghosts over his lips at the feather-soft touch of those strong hands on his knee that pull him back into the car, warmth seeping through the denim of his jeans that still scares him, _still_ , but he has the feeling that they're gonna figure it out. 

If the boy can smell it too? Does he know yet? It'd sure be a hella fun to break it to him over some extra-greasy diner burger, the ones Dean has dreamed of having for years now. Maybe he has to teach the kid a trick or two before they go to a place like that though, so that he can play "big strong mate" for him and knock every pushy alpha's balls into next week. Their bonding will take another few weeks before it will really benefit Sam's growth. 

Until then, Dean has to be strong for the two of them, before his alpha fills and bulks, before his own belly goes too big to roundhouse-kick, yeah. That'd be, what? Six months maybe? No idea. He assumes he's gonna get big _fast_ , like a balloon. 

Sam groans next to him because he can smell Dean's arousal at the idea, and Dean breaks a sweat over the ice-hot thrill of both horror and anticipation it sends down his spine. 

"What are you thinking about?" his puppy asks, voice giddy with the swell of his dick. Jesus. Yes, he's just cute like that; _puppy_. Dean contemplates making it his official name. 

"'Bout your _daddy_ ," he grins. Lying comes easy from his mouth, he was taught. 

Sam's jaw drops all the way into his lap and Dean barks a wave of laughter. He wonders if it will ever stop being amazing to feel your alpha's come leak from your ass. 

"'Bout his face when he notices he 'contributed' this little dowry here." 

When he presents the worn-out leather wallet, his mate's eyes start to water. It makes him laugh even louder. 

"You don't know how much I love you," puppy beams. 

Dean flicks it into that slim lap, totally aiming for that juvenile hard-on and totally boning it. Ha. _Boning_. 

"Dude," he starts. 

He wonders how long it will take Sam to overcome his curiosity and search through the tight leather-folds, to find that adorable picture. Sam's mom sure is a babe; Dean hopes Sam'll introduce them someday. And Sam sure was one _fat_ little baby. He'll find use for that, and if that's the last thing he'll ever do. 

Sun on his knuckles, his alpha's slender feet on the console of this beautiful car, first cells molding and dividing inside of his body, for the first time in his life - Dean gets a first hint of what it could be like to be truly _free_. 

"No chick-flick moments." 

**Author's Note:**

> _Benny and Dean's prayer: psalm 23_   
>  _Dean's lullaby: "No particular way to go" by Chuck Berry_
> 
>  
> 
> It was an intense on/off process with this one... as in: 25% were written on 2015/01/23 and the other 65% from 2015/04/23-26. 
> 
> Well, you see, I could write endless pages of explanations for this piece, but I don't want to harass you with it, either... So, if you'd like to discuss or ask about something, feel free to leave a comment down below.


End file.
